


Negotiations

by thievinghippo



Series: Bethroot Cadash [5]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-16
Updated: 2015-07-20
Packaged: 2018-04-04 15:05:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 30,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4142256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thievinghippo/pseuds/thievinghippo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the grand scheme of the Inquisition, what is one man's life truly worth? And what might the Inquisitor be willing to give up to save her lover? The machinations, ploys, and subterfuge behind the freedom of Captain Thom Rainier.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Execution Day

The sky is so overcast she can barely tell the clouds apart.

No matter, the merchant thinks as she rubs her chapped hands together. Good coin will be made today, always is on a day when there’s a hanging. Everyone, from the street cleaners to the prissiest of nobles, finds a reason to be in Val Royeaux on Execution Day. ‘Tis practically a holiday, especially when it’s as well-known a murderer as this.

Waking up an hour earlier was worth it, she decides, surveying the prime spot she claimed for her stall, right near the gallows. Candy and nuts are spread out like treasure near the front of the table and fresh fruits are at the back. She hoped for a fine day, a hot day, where she could sell watered-down lemonade at ten copper a cup. But in this weather, it will barely sell for five.

No matter. Sweets always sell, especially the moss candy that’s become so popular, thanks to the Inquisitor’s lover. Someone saw him buying several packages at le Barre Chocolat his last visit to Val Royeaux. One could only assume they were for the Inquisitor. Since then, Orzammar couldn’t ship it up to the surface fast enough. Every noble in the country wanted to try the Herald’s favorite candy.

Already more people mill around the market than usual. The merchant smiles beneath her mask and puts her hand in her pocket, rubbing two coins together for luck.

It’s going to be a _good_ day.

#

A thin fog obscures the flags of Val Royeaux.

It’s an ugly day, especially sitting in an open wagon instead of a carriage. The crisp air pinches her cheeks and tears sting her eyes. Because of the wind, Bethroot tells herself half-heartedly. At least they’re finally on a smooth brick road instead of the rocky dirt path leading to the city. The jostling of the wagon always leaves her feeling off-balanced, like after a night of too much ale.

Bethroot slips her hand in her pocket, feeling the note Blackwall left her in the stables. The message is burned in her memory now; she doesn’t even need to look at the words to know his handwriting is hurried and rushed. Part of her wonders when he wrote the note. No trace of a quill or ink pot were found in the stables, which makes Bethroot think he had that note in his pocket when they sat in the tavern. Somehow the thought hurts more than the others, that even with the night they shared, she still failed to change his mind. She couldn’t find the words to make him stay.

“‘Bout time we got here,” Sera says, impatience lacing every word as she bumps Bethroot’s shoulder. “Should we spread out and search or stick together?”

“Stick together, I think,” Varric says, and Bethroot hears his concern. She looks up and sees him studying her, like she’s a subject for one of his books, a tale to be told. Of course he’s concerned. All everyone has been since Blackwall disappeared is sodding concerned.

“Why are you so interested in finding him, Sera?” It’s surprising to hear real curiosity in Dorian’s voice as he talks to Sera, but not an unwelcome one.

“Beardy’s family,” Sera says at once, twirling an arrow between her fingers, sounding just as lost and confused as Bethroot. “Like an older brother. I always wanted one, yeah? He’s a much older, much hairier brother.” Sera bumps Bethroot’s shoulder again, a frown on her face. “He really didn’t tell you where he was going?"

Bethroot’s fingers curl into fists at the hint of accusation. A hand-to-hand combatant she is not, but she could desperately use something to punch right now. Every day since they left Skyhold it’s been the same question from Sera, as if she doesn’t believe Bethroot's not at fault for Blackwall’s disappearance. Even showing Sera the note he left wasn’t enough to stop the questions. If only it was something as simple as an argument. An argument she could understand.

But this? Blackwall leaving Bethroot naked and alone in the loft, without even a blanket, could only have one explanation: his Calling. He _promised_. He promised if he heard the Call he would tell her, to give her the chance to say a proper goodbye before she started to mourn.

“I don’t think the answer’s changed since yesterday, Buttercup,” Varric says, to which Sera simply rolls her eyes. He leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees and lowering his voice so only she can hear. “Cadash, you consider Hero might not want to be found?”

Her nod is curt as she runs her hands over her thighs, willing the wagon to go faster. Of course Blackwall doesn’t want to be found, why else would he have skulked off in the middle of the night? But he’s also not thinking clearly, she’s sure of it, or he would have never left that report in his quarters.

“We’ll go to the execution. If he’s not there…” Bethroot looks over at Cullen, who deigned to join them on the journey, to meet with some chevaliers who hoped to join the Inquisition. “Well, there’s plenty of other work to be done."

The words taste like dust in her mouth. This is their only lead. If he’s not there… She could go to Orzammar, to the entrance of the Deep Roads, but there’s simply no time. Already Bethroot has taken more time than she should, coming to Val Royeaux to hunt for him. As much as she wants to search all of Thedas for Blackwall, there remains the simple fact she is the Inquisitor. Her heart won’t stop beating outside of her chest right now and if they fail to find him, Bethroot will somehow have to push away her confusion and hurt, and work.

A gust of wind chills the air and Bethroot crosses her arms over her chest, wanting to shield herself, trying to keep in any warmth she can. If Blackwall sat next to her, he’d see the shiver and scoot a little closer, letting her lean against him slightly so they’d share the warmth from their bodies. But he isn’t here. He might never be here again. Bethroot angrily wipes the tears from her eyes which are most certainly caused by the wind.

And just when Bethroot thinks this day can’t get any worse, it starts to rain.

#

In a way, Mornay is glad the day is finally here. It’s been exhausting, living on the run, and every day feels like it’s taken away a year of his life. Every time he hid or used a false name he lost a piece of himself. There’s an indignity to being forced to give up your identity. He’s forgotten what it’s like to be a civilized man, to walk around Jader with his head held high and his wife on his arm.

Years ago, most considered him lucky, one of Rainier’s men, a group of hand-selected soldiers from the company. Not only that, Rainier personally choose him to be his second-in-command. It never bothered Mornay that Rainier was almost a decade younger; he still had things he could teach an old soldier.

Now Mornay hopes Rainier’s dead in a ditch somewhere. Bastard deserved no less.

How did he miss the signs? They had to be there all along, didn't they? Rainier’s disappearance after rumors of an investigation reached Jader shocked them all. And once Nia had been captured, the rest of them ran, ran as far as they could from Orlais. But whispers found them, revealing truths Mornay once considered impossible.

A noble admitted to paying Rainier to injure a man, or a mother bribing him to promote her son. Decades of abuse, of working the system for Rainier’s own personal gain, and Mornay never realized. How could his captain, a man willing to take in anyone, not caring what country they came from, be the same man who abandoned them all in their hour of need?

How many bottles of wine had the two of them shared? How many times did Mornay simply shake his head as Rainier found yet another woman to bed? How many times had they saved each other’s lives? _Four years_ Mornay served as Rainier’s right hand man and they were friends for half a decade before that, at least.

And Mornay never discovered the truth. He might have well put the noose around Trembley, Nia and Yount’s neck himself, for all the good he did them.

Only Paquet and Roig ran free now. Mornay wonders where they are. Perhaps Roig went back to Nevarra? He hopes Paquet found some peace. She never quite recovered after killing the eldest of the Callier children. He likes to picture her safe in a Chantry, a place where the Sisters might protect her, where she could be alone with her grief.

But these are an old man’s dreams. And he’s never felt older as the guards open the door to his cell. So as rope is tied around his wrists, Mornay turns his thoughts to his children.

He married late, far past the time he should settle down. But his oldest is a lad of seventeen now. Old enough to know his mind and have some idea what he wants out of life. Would he be a soldier like his old man? A shiver runs down his spine as the guard pushes him forward. From what he remembers, the boy, with his dark green eyes and strong jaw, had a gentle soul; a soldier’s life would crush his spirit. One of Delphine’s brothers works as a smith. Much better to apprentice the boy there.

If any of his children would be in the military, it would be his twin daughters. Such practical children, even at their young age, always protecting their clothes, making sure the rules were followed as they played with toy swords. Mornay can picture their yellow braids flying about as they sparred ‘like Papa.’

The guards drag him outside and he feels the autumn air against his skin. Looking up at the sky, Mornay sees rain starting to fall; he always did enjoy the rain. And as he starts to walk to the gallows, he thinks of the one regret he has. Not being able to see what sort of adults his children will grow up to be. He doesn’t worry about Delphine. His wife is strong, and young enough to find another husband, someone to look out for her as she grows old, since he failed so miserably.

Mornay looks at the crowd gathered in the marketplace and finds it hard to believe so many people are here to see an old man die. As the guards push him to the gallows, the whispers start, but Mornay ignores them all. These last few minutes of his life, he wants only to think of his children.

May they grow up to be better people than he.

#

Blackwall kept one sugar cube in his pocket for this very moment.

He rests his brow against the chestnut’s forehead. “You’ve been a good friend,” he says softly, petting the horse’s dark brown mane. Blackwall’s considered Victor his since he joined the Inquisition, even though he didn’t ride nearly as often as he liked. How could he, with Bethroot not comfortable around horses? He certainly wasn’t about to leave her behind.

Which is exactly what he did, he thinks, picturing her asleep on a bale of hay.

Heart stammering, Blackwall pushes Bethroot from his mind. It would be easy, too easy, to hop on Victor and ride back to Skyhold, citing Warden business. No doubt Bethroot would welcome him back into her arms. But then Mornay would die. Once, Blackwall would consider that an acceptable loss, a price to pay for keeping himself breathing. No longer.

Victor lets out a soft snort, nudging Blackwall’s pocket with his nose. “Greedy,” he whispers to the horse, not quite willing to give away his prize yet. Blackwall’s throat constricts as he looks over at the stable hand. “You’ll take good care of him?” he asks, hearing the plea in his voice.

The stable hand’s words tumble over each other. “Yes, ser, of course, ser, like he was my own, ser."

Blackwall nods, knowing he’s at least changed the lad’s life for the better. Victor is worth at least ten gold, an unheard of sum for a boy that age. Blackwall knows; he was a stable boy himself once, a lifetime ago. And he gave the horse to the lad for free. Someone needs to look after Victor once Blackwall is dead.

Victor whinnies again and Blackwall puts his hand in his pocket. His fingers wrap around the sugar cube and he realizes this is his last connection to the Inquisition, his last connection to her. No doubt the work he did with the Inquisition was the most important of his life. But this, what he’s about to do, is more important than just his life.

“Here you go,” Blackwall says, as Victor takes the offered cube from Blackwall’s gloved hand.

With one last pat of Victor’s head, Blackwall readies himself. He’s a soldier; he’s always been ready to face death in any battle. But this isn’t battle, this is surrender, finally admitting his sins to the world.

He wonders how quickly they’ll hang him. If there’s any justice in the world, it won’t take long once he confesses. All he hopes is once he’s in custody, he might have a few simple moments to think about Bethroot until the end.  

Blackwall ignores the rain as he leaves the stable and walks towards the main marketplace of Val Royeaux. It’s crowded, of course it’s fucking crowded, no one wants to miss any of the drama of an execution. Bloody vultures, the lot of them. The people of Val Royeaux will eat you up and spit you out without a second glance. And to think he proudly considered himself one of them, once.

His step is lighter than it’s been in years. Each step taking him closer to the gallows brings a certain sort of relief, letting him hold his head high. For once in his life, his mind is clear and he has no doubt he’s doing the right thing. It’s a strange feeling, that. But not an unwelcome one, especially not when his hours are numbered.

Once he steps into the main square, he sees Mornay already standing on the gallows, and Blackwall starts to rush, fear spreading through every vein. He can’t fuck this up, not now, not when he’s given up everything good in his life to save this man.  

And as he walks behind the crowd, that’s when he sees Dorian.

For a moment, Blackwall wants to look away, pretend he didn’t see the mage. Then he could pretend it isn’t Bethroot who stands next to him, one hand at her mouth, no doubt biting her nails to calm her nerves

He should have known, he should have bloody _known_. She can’t resist involving herself in other people’s affairs, no matter how small. And now she’s involved herself in this. Why couldn’t she simply let him go?

The next thirty seconds are the most important of his life. Blood pounds in his ears as Blackwall comes up with reason after reason to walk over to Bethroot right now and hold her hand as together they watch Mornay die. It would be so easy. Too easy.

_You are who you choose to follow._

If he wants to be worthy of his lady, Mornay must live, and Blackwall’s death is the only way. He only wanted to go to his death with the knowledge deep in his soul that Bethroot thought him a good man. Now any chance for that is gone. Someday, he foolishly hopes Bethroot might forgive him for this, for the truth she’s about to learn. But the noose is around Mornay’s neck and it’s time to act.

So he climbs the steps of the gallows and yells “Stop.”


	2. Aftermath

Never before has Baroness Chastain been so pleased to stand in the rain. Her new shoes are completely ruined, but she had a front seat for one of the most dramatic executions in years! To stand next to the Inquisitor herself...

For almost a month, the Inquisitor’s name was on everyone’s lips, the darling of Orlais. Chastain couldn’t go to a party without someone bringing up her dancing, her oration, and her skillful mastery of the Game. But Chastain knows behind those smiles hide wolves’ teeth, ready to tear the Inquisitor apart, if only given the chance 

And the Inquisitor being the unknowing lover of Captain Thom Rainier provides them with the perfect opportunity.

Chastain adjusts her mask, hating how it digs into her cheeks and restricts what she can see. It’s a new mask, one designed to cover more of her eyes, to hide the wrinkles that refuse to disappear, no matter how rested she is.

She turns to look at her escort, a man ten years older with a gut too large to be good for him, and ignores the way he seems to stare at women much too young to be proper. “It’s like something out of a Tethras novel,” Chastain says, trying to capture his attention again.

She doesn’t particularly like the man, but he’s wealthy and doesn’t have outlandish tastes in bed. And if they wed, she’ll raise her minor noble house with her, so she so she gladly puts up with his wandering hands and breath of dead fish.

“Are we sure they were lovers?” he asks in a hushed voice.

“They were seen kissing on the balcony of the Winter Palace,” Chastain tells him. “And the rumor is he’s seen regularly going up to her room in Skyhold in the evening and doesn’t come down until the next morning.”

“And to think, I thought the execution would be dull,” he says.

Chastain smiles slowly behind her mask, knowing he thought anything but. Executions of the well-known are almost a celebration. And if she thought today’s events were exciting, they’re nothing compared to the circus when Captain Thom Rainier will be hung.

She’ll even be willing to ruin another new pair of shoes to be there, front and center. 

# 

She doesn’t belong here, Blackwall thinks, as he watches Bethroot walk away. Away from the dank smell of death and endings that linger in the air, practically choking him. Maybe once she did - he harbors no illusions of her criminal past - but no longer. The mark, in his eyes, proves it. No one could be touched by Andraste Herself and belong in a shit hole of a prison like this.

Even after she’s out of sight, Blackwall listens to her echoing footsteps until those too, disappear. She’s truly lost to him forever now; he’ll never see her again. Never again. His grip on the bars of the prison becomes the only thing keeping him upright. He’s on the verge of panic now, with shallow breaths and a speeding pulse.

He never, _ever_ planned on admitting the truth to her. And now she knows everything. Every sordid detail of his miserable existence. He told her from the beginning they would regret being together and he can only begin to imagine how Bethroot must be feeling right now.

Staring through the bars of the prison, Blackwall tries to calm himself, thinking of her, of the little things he’d like to remember. How she slipped her hand in his as they walked around Skyhold. How determined she was to be a better archer, training whenever she had free time. How she truly believed, until this afternoon, that Blackwall was a good man.

But none of those things stay with him. Instead, all he remembers is the fear in her eyes at his outburst as she backed away from his cage.

And _that_ is what he’ll take to his death, not the way she curled up next to him, her hand resting on his chest, her leg between his, their last night together in the loft.

He should have swung, right then and there, on the gallows, the moment he admitted his name. But it will be soon, he thinks, gripping the bars tighter. Orlais loves its retribution. So Blackwall sits back down on the uncomfortable bench, trying to control his breathing, as he thinks to the one comfort left to him.

Tucked safely away in his glove is Bethroot's favor. It’s the ugliest handkerchief he’s ever seen and the most perfect gift she could have ever made him. He pulls out just a hint of the edge, looking at the uneven stitches, and tries to remember the happier times.

Even with the secrets he kept from her, they _were_ happy. _He_ was happy. He certainly had no right to it and didn’t deserve a lick of it. But it was there, deep in his bones, until he saw the missive that Mornay was in custody and all his illusions shattered.

More footsteps ring down the puddle-filled corridor and Blackwall doesn’t bother to look up, knowing it won’t be her. “Rainier?” a harsh voice asks. “You’re to be processed.”

Blackwall pushes Bethroot’s token back into his glove and stands, slowly and deliberately, disappointment crushing his chest. Processing means he’s not to die tonight; they wouldn’t bother if he’d be a corpse at the end of the evening. But that means more time in prison, more time to remember what a fucking mongrel he is, a monster he didn’t even realize he’d become until too late.

The guard shoves him roughly through a hallway, into a room full of instruments of torture, where two other masked guards wait. Blackwall grits his teeth, preparing himself for whatever the guards have in store for him. Guards in prisons like these are little more than glorified thugs in uniform. They’ll take any chance to inflict pain, to prop themselves up by beating men who can’t fight back 

Physical pain has become a close friend over the years, an almost constant current running under Blackwall’s skin. Even so, his stomach churns, waiting for the guards to make their move. He makes no sound when the first blow hits, square in the jaw. A kick to the back drops him to his knees. Instead of fighting back, Blackwall closes his eyes, accepting every burst of pain, every drop of blood, and every future bruise.

After all these years, Captain Thom Rainier is finally getting the punishment he deserves. 

Perhaps because he makes no move to protect himself, they let him up earlier than he expects. Quietly, Blackwall takes stock of the pain. His bad knee is in agony, but he clenches his fists, trying to work through the worst of it. A concussion. A loose tooth. A broken rib, most likely. All injuries he’s had before.

And just when he thinks he’s been through worse, a guard orders him to strip. He’s heard of stories in prisons, of men being taken forcibly by other men, and never gave those poor bastards a second thought. Blackwall closes his eyes, ignoring the shame starting to pool in stomach, and complies. He has one thing left to do in this world, and that is to die well. No doubt Leliana will get a full report of his behavior in prison and is sure to pass it along to Bethroot. Let his lady see that he died with dignity. Let him give her at least that comfort in the end.

So when a guard orders him to spread his legs and put out his arms, he does without hesitation, closing his eyes and shutting himself off from the world. When a delousing powder is thrown over his body instead of the buggery he expects, Blackwall’s knees almost give way in relief, but he manages to stay upright. When a guard hands him a set of thin linen clothes, he puts them on immediately. When a guard tells him to follow, Blackwall does like any good soldier.

When the door to his prison cell slams shut, leaving him alone in the dark, Blackwall lays down and promptly falls asleep. And for the first time in a very long time, he does not dream.

#

“Have Rainier released to us.”

With those words, he watches the Inquisitor turn on her heel and march out of the prison, leaving Cullen with an almost impossible task. Maker, he never expected this, he thinks as he rubs the back of his neck. A week ago, he would have considered Blackwall a valued friend, someone he could look to for advice. Cullen trusted him with the newest, rawest recruits, and somehow Blackwall always managed to make soldiers out of anyone thrown his way. And without the warrior’s help, the siege of Adamant wouldn’t have gone nearly as smoothly. They spent hours together in Cullen’s office, together with Cullen’s lieutenants, planning the attack.

And to think, after all this time, Blackwall hid Rainier from them, the very worst sort of traitor. Turning on his own men and letting them die… The word despise doesn’t begin to cover how Cullen feels about the man.

Yet the Herald wants Rainier in Inquisition custody. He can’t even begin to understand how she must be feeling right now. No one could look at the pair without realizing how much they care for each other. Well, Cullen will do his best.

A plan, that’s what he needs. The most urgent task is ensuring Rainier isn’t led off to the gallows when nobody's looking. Cullen motions to the jail warden and asks a favor for the Inquisition. Throwing around names and asking for favors is Josephine’s department - Cullen feels very outmatched in this area - but the warden readily agrees. Apparently the Inquisitor and Rainier saved his sister’s life in the Exalted Plains. The irony is not lost on Cullen, but he is relieved. One obstacle overcome.

With the victory, he steps into the Marketplace, among the masks and the trappings of nobility. This life will never suit him, for which he’s glad. Give him a barracks over a ballroom any day. Though as he walks, he’s painfully aware how much he stands out at the moment, with his fur mantle and warrior’s posture. More than one head turns as Cullen passes and he tries not to feel like he’s on display.

So Cullen picks up his pace and heads towards the small Inquisition storefront in the marketplace. Almost every major city across Orlais and Ferelden has one now: Denerim, Jader, Val Chevin. A place for potential recruits to find information and a safe spot for agents to gather. This is his first visit to this particular office and he hopes it’s like the one he visited in Denerim a few months back, which was unassuming and discreet.

A young woman, with eyes the color of the Waking Sea, curtsies from behind the counter at his approach. “I expected you, Commander,” she says quietly. “I’ve a table in the back with vellum and ink ready and they’re preparing my fastest crow now.”

He nods, finding himself impressed with the efficiency. _This_ is why the Inquisition is able to do what it does, because of people like her. “Thank you,” he says, hoping perhaps he’ll be able to pull off the impossible after all. “We will need an agent to be a point of contact for all of this. Someone who can keep their wits about them around nobility.”

“Madame Gagne,” the woman says without delay. “She’s nobility herself, a minor house. I’ll have her brought here at once.”

Once the young woman leaves, Cullen sits at the table and tries to figure out how exactly to convey the afternoon to Leliana and Josephine. He decides to stick to facts, laying out the events as precisely as he can and what decisions need to be made. Some details, he chooses to leave out, like how the Inquisitor grabbed Varric’s shoulder for balance as the guards bound Rainier’s hands behind his back. Leliana and Josephine have no need to know the agony on the Inquisitor’s face as she was told more and more details of what happened.

An hour later, the crow is on its way to Skyhold and he’s spoken to Madame Gagne with careful instructions. While this is not the choice he would have made - Cullen would have respected Rainier’s decision - he’s confident he’s done everything he can to follow the Inquisitor’s orders to the letter.

#

Greedy eyes, both noble and common, watch Bethroot leave the prison. She’s on display now, a tale to be told around taverns and sitting rooms tonight - just how _did_ the Inquisitor react to the truth about her lover? - and Bethroot holds her head high. Let no one say the Inquisitor broke down in tears or made a fool of herself. She might be holding on by a thread, but she _is_ holding.

In the corner of her eye, she sees Varric waving her over, a friend amid the vipers. When Bethroot reaches him, he looks around, she assumes not to be overheard, and says, “I’ve got us rooms above the tavern here. Figured you wouldn’t want to march through the rest of Val Royeaux to get to the usual place.”

He hands her a water skin and Bethroot offers him a smile, one weary and bitter, but a smile nonetheless. She takes a large swallow from the skin and practically chokes, realizing too late it’s not water but whiskey. The alcohol burns her throat and she tries not to think of the last drink she had before this, with Blackwall in the Herald’s Rest. “Thanks, Varric,” she says, handing him back the skin. As good as alcohol sounds right now, whiskey’s never been her drink of choice. “I’ve got to get out of here.”

Following Varric through the tavern, with each step she hears whispers: her name, Blackwall’s, Thom Rainier’s. _Thom,_ she thinks bitterly, wondering why he couldn’t have at least offered her that, when she asked for his given name so long ago. She pushes the thought away in a huff. In the end, what does his name even matter?

She’s led to the back of the tavern, up a poky little staircase and into a plainly furnished room, where Sera and Dorian are already waiting. Relief washes through her to be among friends again and out of the zealous gaze of Val Royeaux. Dorian, Ancestors bless him, hands Bethroot a glass of wine the second she steps through the door.

“So what happened?” Sera asks the moment Bethroot sits down in a wingback chair.

Bethroot holds up her hand as she drinks the entire glass, hardly even stopping to take a breath. Once done, she holds out her glass, silently asking for more. Dorian snatches the glass from her straight away. “You’ll want a few of these, then. When crisis hits, I find they’re much easier to bear in a drunken stupor.”

Her feet don’t touch the floor, so she crosses them underneath her in the chair. Resting her elbows on her knees, Bethroot puts her head in hands, as if she could ward away the headache she already feels forming behind her eye. “He stood so still,” she says, almost a whisper.

That’s what Bethroot remembers the most from their talk. Not the details, not the agony in his voice as Blackwall confessed, but when he calmed down, how quiet he seemed. He’s a man whose hands are always working. When sitting, rare is the day when he doesn’t have a piece of wood in his hands to whittle, or a piece of gear to fix. Even when they sit quietly together, his fingers would be in her hair or rubbing her palm, just never idle.

She’s always loved his hands, how long his fingers are compared to her own. The fine, greying hair on the back of his hands and on his knuckles. All of the lines on his palms, telling so many stories. His hands are beautiful.

As she asked him questions in prison, amazed at how readily he answered them, Blackwall’s hands didn’t fidget once. And in one five-minute conversation, Bethroot learned more about him than in fifteen months of friendship, eight of them sharing a bed.

“But is he going to hang?” Sera asks, and even Bethroot can hear the distress in the elf’s voice.

Bethroot blows some air through her lips. “Cullen’s going to work on getting him released to the Inquisition.” The fear that Orlais will refuse weighs down her shoulders, threatening to crush her into the ground.

“Bootstrap? Why not you?”

“I believe, Sera,” Dorian says quietly, “it would be best for the Inquisitor not to get involved. Let the people work behind the scenes.”

“That’s shite, it is,” Sera says and there’s an anger there, a dangerous edge to her tone. “Get him out.”

Even with a fire in the fireplace, Bethroot feels a chill in the air. Risking the Inquisition’s relationship with Orlais over one man is simply not an option. Not ever for Blackwall - Rainier. She refuses to be _that_ leader, the one who thinks they are above the rules.

She will not become the Dasher.

Dorian hands her another glass of wine, which Bethroot drinks eagerly. There is nothing to do, except let the people of the Inquisition do their job. She’ll simply have to hope for the best, knowing that no matter what happens, Blackwall, the man she fell in love with, is lost to her forever.


	3. Skyhold, Part I

“I thought Blackwall sounded different.” Thalia stretches her arms above her head, ignoring how her light Grey Warden armor does nothing to keep out the chill. She doesn’t like it here in Skyhold, would prefer the warmth of anywhere else, really. But the Wardens have given up their claims to any preferences.

“You knew him? The real Blackwall?”

The Warden is surrounded by three others, all wanting to talk about the rumor coming from Orlais that Warden Blackwall is actually dead. Why anyone would want to impersonate their lifestyle is beyond her. Thalia would rather be with her clan, wandering the Dales. But being born a mage in a clan with already too many limited her options.

“I did. He was Nevarran, actually. Completely different accent,” she says, enjoying the moment of attention. “Soon as he opened his mouth at Adamant I knew it wasn’t him.”

The Wardens look at each other, before looking back at Thalia. Even though the man speaking the words was false, the words rang true and for the first time since she heard about Erimond, Thalia felt hope bubble up inside. Though she’s lucky she survived the siege at all, all of them were, when so many of her brothers and sister fell.

She misses them. She misses what the Order represented, thinking of the time after the Blight, when everyone thought they could do no wrong. How quickly they learned.

“So tell me,” another Warden says. Thalia looks down at the dwarf with a great sword on his back and nods encouragingly. “I heard the real Blackwall was up for Clarel’s job but then he disappeared. Do you think…”

She shivers, understanding what he implies. Would things have been different under Warden-Commander Blackwall instead of Clarel? Shaking her head, she decides it’s too tempting and dangerous to think in terms of _what if_.

#

Leliana can’t help but scowl at the parchment. Cullen’s handwriting is rushed and cramped and clearly not providing all of the information. He only mentions the Inquisitor once. But Leliana studies the words he did write over and over again and realizes it’s happened again.

She failed.

Leliana failed the Inquisition, failed the Herald of Andraste. Just like Haven and Divine Justinia before, she _failed._

What secrets might the rest of the Inquisitor’s companions be hiding? Leliana knows next to nothing about Sera or Solas or Cole. Is there anything in their pasts that might cause the Inquisition harm?

Leliana recognizes Josephine’s soft footsteps coming up the stairs into the Rookery. “Tell me true,” Josephine demands in a quiet voice, one Leliana learned to respect. Rare is the day Josephine requests the full truth of Leliana’s work, knowing the fewer details shared the better. The arrangement suits Leliana, content to keep Josephine away from her work.

“Did you know Rainier was Blackwall?”

Her fingers curl around the edge of the railing as she prepares herself. She should have told someone long ago. “I knew he wasn’t Blackwall,” Leliana admits. She glances at Josephine, who crosses her arms over her chest and glares as only an Antivan can. Leliana’s next words are rushed and she hears the strain of revealing the truth in her voice. “But I thought he was a Grey Warden, at least. They have so many secrets. I assumed there had to be a reason he took the man’s identity.”

“How? How did you know?” Josephine’s voice is earnest now.

“The real Blackwall was in Orlais during the Blight. Thom Rainier said he was in Ferelden,” Leliana says, thinking back to that time and the hardships they all faced, especially dear Brosca. She whispers a quick prayer that her friend is safe, wherever she might be. “There were only two Wardens in all of Ferelden during the Blight and I was with them both. We could have used another’s help.”

Josephine sighs and walks outside onto the stone balcony, with Leliana trailing behind. “What a disaster,” Josephine says softly. Leliana knows nothing Josephine says is personal, but the sense of failure still weighs on her shoulders. “You never thought to tell anyone? Especially once they became lovers?”

“What was I supposed to do, Josie?” Leliana asks in a low voice. There is no one around to overhear, but too many years of worrying about the shadows created habits she doesn’t know if she’ll ever be able to break. “It was clear from the start that Black- Rainier was the Herald’s favorite. I wanted to wait until I had proof before there was a confrontation.”

“Did you actually look for proof?” Josephine asks, a frown on her face and hand on her hip.

Leliana looks up at the sky and sees a single crow flying towards the Rookery, and wonders what news it might bring. For a moment, the optimist buried deep inside her hopes for good news, before her pragmatic side remembers there’s no such thing. “Of course not,” Leliana says, not able to keep out a sliver of anger in her voice, which Josephine does not deserve. “Do you think I actually have time with all the real threats out in Thedas?”

She beats her fists against her thighs once, only once, before she forces herself to be in control again. So much depends on her and her agents, and yet information keeps slipping through their fingers, like cupping water. First an assassin almost finds their way to Josephine, and now Thom Rainier, a known murderer, has been sharing the Inquisitor’s bed for months. 

What if this is all a ploy to get to the Inquisitor? Thom Rainier took bribes all the time. Leliana would like to believe in tales of true love and redemption, but those are stories for children and old women.

“So the question is, do we follow the Inquisitor’s orders and work towards Rainier’s release, or arrange an accident in the prison?” Leliana says thoughtfully as she traces the broach pinning her hood to her armor.

Josephine’s face hardens and Leliana realizes she perhaps spoke out of turn. Even with her past as a bard, the Ambassador doesn’t belong in the world of the shadows, and Leliana will do anything to keep her friend from joining her in the dark.

“We follow,” Josephine starts, and her fingers grasp the gold sash at her waist. “We follow the Inquisitor’s instructions, though I doubt she understands what it will cost us in reputation.”

“And it will be us, not her, won’t it?” Leliana asks, closing her eyes. She has given everything, _everything_ , to the Inquisition. When will the Maker finally be satisfied? How much more will she be forced to give? “To the common folk, the Herald is simply trying to save her lover, but the Inquisition is the force that will make it happen.”

“I will do my best to soften the blow,” Josephine says, reaching out and placing her hand on Leliana’s arm. The slight weight feels good and familiar and warmth spreads throughout Leliana’s belly, reminding her she is not alone. None of them are. “But yes, having Rainier released to us will do the Inquisition far more harm than good.” She sighs and Leliana can’t help but think how young Josephine is. How young they are all. “I do not look forward to the aftermath.”

#

There is a joke in the barracks: the only thing that travels faster than a crow is gossip.

Three people have stopped Cassandra on the way to the training yard, wanting to know if she heard ‘the news.’ _The news_. As if the truth of Blackwall’s identity was little more than a missive about farming or the weather. The news.

How could she not have heard? Everyone has heard at this point, and they are all laughing at the Inquisition, letting a criminal into the Inner Circle of the Herald of Andraste. For more than a year and a half, Cassandra lived and breathed the Inquisition, doing everything in her power to build it up. And now Thom Rainier threatens to bring it all down on top of them.

“You look ready for a fight.”

Cassandra looks over at the Iron Bull, who stands with a two-handed practice sword over his shoulder. In her youth, she would train with a two-handed sword to work on her endurance. She understands why Bull enjoys using the weapon, there is power and grace in such a blade, but she much prefers her sword and shield.

Like Rainier. The thought that she has anything in common with that murderer infuriates her. “I am always ready for a fight,” she tells Bull as she rolls her neck, taking far too much pleasure in feeling the satisfying crack.

He throws her a blunted practice sword, which she catches easily. “Then let’s have it.”

Cassandra barely has time to bring up her weapon to block before the blow hits causing vibrations to run up her arm. This is exactly what she needs, a chance to work off some of her anger. “Good hit,” she says, never unwilling to give praise where it is due.

“So why the pissed off face today?” Bull asks casually. Cassandra rolls her eyes. She forgot how much he likes to talk as he spars. “Haven’t seen you this upset in a while.”

She feints to the right and Bull immediately gets out of the way. Cassandra grips her sword tighter. There is no sense of urgency in this spar, but there never is with Bull. “I assume you’ve heard about Blackwall?”

“Yeah, yeah, not really a Warden. I could have told you all that months ago.”

Her eyes squint as their swords clash. “Months ago? How?” Cassandra holds up a hand and steps back. If Bull knew something… She takes a gulp of air, her breathing slightly labored, and asks, “How did you know?”

“Little things,” Bull says with a shrug, resting his weapon on his shoulder, seemingly content to quit sparring. “When he talked about the Wardens he never looked anyone in the eye. And then, of course, there’s body language. Whenever he lied, he crossed his arms over his chest or fidgeted with his hands.”

“And you just knew that?”

Bull shrugs. “Years of training. The man still did good work with the Inquisition, though.”

“By playing us all for fools?” Cassandra says angrily, stabbing the tip of the sword into the dirt, standing it upright. “I trusted him. I told him about Antony and he told me about his sister.” She thinks back to those quiet conversations, when she thought him a vaunted Grey Warden, someone she considered a friend. If she had known, she would not have spoken a single word to him.

“The sister thing wasn’t a lie,” Bull says, sounding bored as he cracks his knuckles. “He did have one and she did die.”

It’s not just the personal betrayal that bothers Cassandra. She thinks of the Herald, of what she must be going through right now and her hands curl into fists. “To think that someone like Rainier has been sharing the Inquisitor’s bed-“

Bull chuckles and holds up a hand. “That’s where your mind went? I knew there was a reason I liked you.” Cassandra snorts and crosses her arms over her chest as Bull continues. “That’s not a lie, either. He truly does love her. Pretty obvious to anyone who sees him look at her.”

“And that’s supposed to make up for what he’s done?” Cassandra snaps. “No. No, it makes it worse.”

“You might want to remember that the Inquisitor doesn’t exactly have a squeaky clean past herself,” Bull says, and she hears a gentle rebuke in his words.

Cassandra closes her eyes, thinking about that past and again just how strange it is that Andraste decided to send a dwarf in their hour of need. And such a dwarf!

But the Inquisitor has done everything they’ve asked of her, except believe. Once, Cassandra hoped that being called the Herald would bring her over to the Chantry, but that doesn’t seem to be the case. Maker knows, Cassandra tried to get Bethroot interested in the Chantry, giving her books to read and asking questions. But the Herald seems to insist on stubbornly clinging to the Stone.

“The Herald never lied about her past,” Cassandra says, knowing the excuse sounds feeble as she hears the words out loud. “She never lied about anything this important.”

“Well, guess we’ll see what happens,” Bull says.

“I suppose we will,” Cassandra says with a nod. “Thank you for the spar, such as it was.”

“Any time.”

Cassandra stares at the ground, thinking of all the times she and Blackwall sparred since he joined the Inquisition. More often than not, she won their battles, but each time he learned and improved, even at his age. And because of that constant improvement, he challenged her. It’s not often Cassandra finds herself challenged, and she can admit she will miss their spars.

She _respected_ him, and respect is something Cassandra does not bestow on just anyone. And there is an itch in the back of her mind, wondering if she could be wrong about Rainier, could she be wrong about the Seekers as well?

But that is a decision for another day. For now, there is work to be done.

#

Never has Josephine been more grateful that she is a maker of lists.

She flutters around her quarters, packing her trunk, checking off each item as she does. If the Inquisition is to have any chance of saving both their relationship with Orlais and Thom Rainier, she will need to be in Val Royeaux in person. She does not relish making such a journey, not for the third time in six months. Already her frequent appearances give the illusion the Inquisition prefers Orlais over other countries. It matters not that her business was personal, not professional.

Pausing in the middle of the room, Josephine gives herself one moment to decide how to best counter her visit to Orlais. The Inquisitor will simply have to go to Denerim to visit Queen Anora in person. When they will find time in her schedule is another matter entirely.

But back to work. In her trunk, she packs dresses, undergarments, jewelry and even two formal gowns in case she’s invited to parties or dinner. Though she has no idea how long she will even be in Orlais. There is always the possibility Rainier will be dead by the time she arrives Val Royeaux. Maker, she hopes she will not be too late.

He is such a quiet, unassuming man; it is hard to believe he is responsible for so much chaos. But Josephine knows from her own time of being a bard that a person can hide so much underneath the surface.

Once she’s satisfied with the state of her trunk, Josephine takes her largest satchel and marches out of her bedroom. She wears plain traveling clothes this morning, no silks or brocade, but a sensible wool dress that will keep out the cold from the mountains. Even her heavy boots are a concession to the realities of mountain travel, though she far prefers the softness of the slippers she wears in Skyhold.

Calliope and Vern, her two assistants, are already in her office, waiting. Josephine is pleased to see they dressed properly for the journey; neither one of them have traveled on official business with her before, and she had not the time to tell them how to dress. “Vern, please inform the footmen my trunk is ready.”

“At once, Lady Ambassador,” Vern says with a deferential nod before walking out of the room.

After she lamented the absence of a staff to the Inquisitor all those months ago, Josephine decided to take the initiative and do something about it. Cullen had his lieutenants and Leliana her agents. Why should she not have an assistant or two? To that end, she searched until she found Calliope, an elf from Amaranthine who worked tirelessly to improve her alienage’s living condition, and Vern, who ran a tradesmen guild in the Anderfels. They had been volunteers until Josephine discreetly gave word she looked for help. Many sent in letters, asking for the positions, but they were the only two to speak to her directly.

One day, Josephine knows, she will be needed in Antiva to be the head of the Montilyet house, and her time with the Inquisition will end. She wants no disturbance when she decides to leave, and to that end, she is training Calliope for the position, though the elf doesn’t realize it yet. She would probably be terrified if she found out. So for now, Josephine is content to pass along her skills with a stealth even Leliana would admire.

As Josephine walks to her desk, ready to start the arduous task of sorting through her documents, Calliope says, “I’ve organized them in three piles: essential, to be reviewed and unnecessary.”

“Always efficient,” Josephine says quietly, skimming the pile to be reviewed. It takes several minutes, but she is confident that any possible document she might need will be in her reach at Val Royeaux.

It is a five day journey to Val Royeaux, and she can’t work the entire time, so once the parchment is packed, Josephine opens the bottom drawer of her desk. There, nestled between rolls of parchment, is her embroidery. It’s a half-finished piece, of what she dreams the Montilyet family crest must have looked like in days of old. Perhaps she’ll find some time during the journey. Perhaps.

Once her satchel is buckled, Josephine looks and Calliope and Vern, both slightly wide-eyed and nervous. “We have a great deal of work to do,” she tells them, hearing a confidence she does not quite feel in her voice.

They nod and she turns on her heel, ready to lead them to the carriage. Josephine does not think of the progress the Inquisition will have to concede or the damage to their reputation, all thanks to one man. Instead, she whispers a simple prayer.

“May Andraste allow us to reach Val Royeaux in time.”


	4. Travel

“Identify yourself!”

She puts her hands in the air at once, not willing to get killed over pride. “Name’s Irati,” she says, her Rivaini accent more pronounced thanks to her shortness of breath. “I’m a runner for the Grey Wardens. Any chance there’s a place for me in your camp tonight?”

The Inquisition guards relax. “You’re always welcome, Warden,” the Inquisition guard says. “Do you need anything?”

“Water, if you have some,” she says, feeling comfortable enough to sit down on a log near the fire. The Inquisition camp looks clean and friendly, with three well-armed guards, much better than her uncomfortable night’s sleep in a tree the day before.

Another guard hands her a skin, which Irati has to keep herself from grabbing. Doesn’t want to seem rude, after all. But she drinks long and deep and starts to relax as the water coats her throat. “Thank you.”

“Where are you heading?”

The Warden chuckles, having expected the question. “Weisshaupt. But you can shave more than a day off the journey if you cut through the Heartlands. And I need to get back as soon as possible.”

She thinks of the documents she’s carrying, the ones she expected to cause an uproar when she reached Skyhold, documents recalling Warden Blackwall to Weisshaupt and away from the Inquisition. Of course, those papers might as well be kindling now, with the real Blackwall dead these many years.

Once she learned the news, Irati gave herself one night to recover, then started the journey right back. She hopes Alistair won’t be too disappointed. He looked forward to Warden Blackwall’s advice. Well, maybe this will make the Hero of Ferelden come back to them and keep Alistair from looking like a lost puppy when he talks about her.

But she’ll discover more once she makes it to the stronghold. For now, she’s safe, she has warmth, and later, she knows she will sleep like hasn’t been able to since she left Skyhold, thanks to the safety of the camp.

#

The first thing Mornay does is buy a mask.

It’s a simple mask, one a noble might have a servant wear, but one that will ensure he blends in with the crowds of Val Royeaux. The moment he slips it on, a warmth envelopes him, letting him feel safe for the first time in more than seven years. The tightness in his chest lessens; the worry, the dread, the wondering where he could sleep, where he might get a bite to eat, all vanish.

The Orlesian army awarded him a half-hearted apology and the promise of his old rank, if he wanted it. But life in the army no longer appeals to him, the Game no longer appeals to him. As he hid throughout Orlais, Mornay dreamed about returning to Jader, to his wife, and settling on a farm outside of the city. Farmers didn’t have to deal with blasted nobles or worry about losing their life because of someone’s whim.

He wonders if Delphine would be content with a simple life. The last time he saw her, three years ago on a quick visit, she looked exhausted, raising the children alone and having to scrape by for their daily bread. Mornay’s hand slips into his pocket, to the bag full of coin, courtesy of the Inquisition. He hadn’t expected that. Hadn’t expected the Commander of the Inquisition’s forces to find him and give him gold.

At first, Mornay wanted to refuse; he has his pride, after all. But the Commander said the Inquisitor authorized the payment herself, and from what Mornay heard, Rainier duped her just like the rest of his men. He heard the rumors scattered throughout Val Royeaux that Rainier was the Inquisitor’s lover, and the idea that Rainier, of all men, thought to settle down with one woman was almost laughable. The man’s appetite for women was enormous back in the day, practically legendary.

But men can change; Mornay is proof of that. As a young man, he wanted nothing more than to give his life for his country. Then he met his wife and suddenly he wanted to be a father. And now? Tilling earth and soil seems like a peaceful way to end his days. Maybe this woman, this Inquisitor, changed Rainier. Something did, or Mornay wouldn’t be free to go home.

He’s not the only one. Roig and Paquet need to be found, need to be told they’re no longer hunted. They deserve to come home and if anything, at least Rainier’s given them the chance to do so. Doesn’t change the fate for the three already killed - Yount, Trembley and Nia - given traitor’s deaths and their ashes left to scatter in the wind. But perhaps they can finally rest, knowing Rainier’s death is soon at hand.

Part of him wants to stay for the execution, wants to see Rainier hang for what he did. But the call of his family is stronger, where he can sit at the head of the table and give thanks to the Maker before they eat a simple meal. Where he can sit a daughter on each knee as they prattle about their day. Where he can end the day on a comfortable straw mattress, with his arms wrapped around his wife.

A simple life like that has no room for the hate he’s held for Rainier for all these years. So as he walks towards the outskirts of Val Royeaux, to hire a carriage to take him to Jader, to take him to his wife and children, he makes a decision.

He forgives Rainier.

And as the carriage leaves Val Royeaux, from the behind the safety of his mask, for the first time in seven years, Mornay truly feels free.

#

Too damn cold this early in the morning.

Varric rubs his hands together, idly wondering if he’d ever be warm again, before putting on his duster. Waking up at the ass-crack of dawn has never been one of his favorite things to do, but the Inquisitor wants to get an early start. Frankly, Varric’s surprised they stayed in Val Royeaux as long as they did; four days have passed since Rainier unmasked himself.

Though Varric found plenty of things to do, scoping out bookshops and seeing just how many of his novels were on shelves - face out, not just the spine - and taking notes. Never got old, seeing his name on the cover of a novel. Better still, a few people recognized him as he walked the city; Varric knew that last publicity portrait would be worth its weight in gold. If only some of that gold made it to his pockets. One of these days he’s going to write a sternly worded letter to his publisher and hope she decides not to put a hit out on him.

He picks up his satchel and glances around the room one last time, not wanting to leave anything behind. As he closes the door, Cadash comes out of her room and offers him a tired looking smile. There’s no hiding the bags underneath her eyes, eyes which are red and exhausted. She’s been crying, that’s for sure.

His heart clenches as he’s reminded of Hawke, how she did the same damn thing after Blondie blew up the Chantry. She’d come out of the water closet with a determined face, ready to work, slipping her hand into Blondie’s with a smile for the rest of them. But Varric saw how bloodshot her eyes had become, how haunted.

Hawke deserved so much more than to be left alone in the Fade to die. At least Cadash had the guts to tell him in person. When he heard the news… He wanted to hate Cadash for making that choice. Void, he was practically ready to pack his things and leave, even when he knew he was to blame for Hawke being there at all.

But it hadn’t been Cadash’s choice, not really. It had been _Hawke’s_ choice. The woman he knew would never consent to saving herself when she could save others. Hawke would have given her life for Kirkwall, if she could, over and over again. Though somehow the city never demanded Hawke’s blood, just the blood of innocent people. And with Choir Boy determined to take the city by force, more and more innocent people are going to die. At the rate things are going, whenever Varric gets back to Kirkwall, it’ll be a city full of ghosts.

There’s an advantage to being a surface dwarf who’s on the fringe of the Chantry. Someday, when he dies, he’s not going to the Stone, like Cadash would like to do. He’ll be going to the side of the Maker and if Hawke isn’t waiting for him with a whiskey, and a quill and parchment, in no particular order, Varric’s going to be _very_ disappointed.

Cadash starts walking, her hands deep in her pockets, and Varric falls in line easily enough. She’s been unusually quiet over the past few days, and it’s starting to worry Varric. Cadash likes to talk. A lot. Some people find it charming; he knows Rainier did, but he’s heard whispers that her constant chatter is considered grating in some circles. Varric? He just wants to know why she’s afraid of silence.

“What’s the plan when we get back to Skyhold?” Varric asks to end the silence, whether for Cadash’s sake or his own, he didn’t know.

“We have to get to the Storm Coast to meet the qunari,” Cadash says, not breaking stride, and even her voice sounds tired. “I’ll stay a day or two at Skyhold, but then we have to head out.”

“Is that the royal we, or am I going with you?” Varric asks. He doesn’t particularly want to go, to be honest. Before they traveled to Val Royeaux, it was the Winter Palace, and as much as he hates to admit this, Varric’s not as young as he used to be. He could use a bit of a rest.

Cadash smiles at his words and Varric decides to count that as a win. She’s been through a lot these last couple of days. A smile seems like a step in the right direction. “It’ll be Bull, Cole and Solas for this trip,” she says. “You’re free to keep working on Cassandra’s book.”

“It’s not for Cassandra,” he says in a huff. “It’s for my loyal readers, which I still can’t believe she’s one of.”

As they turn the corner, Varric sees the wagon is ready to leave. Cullen and Dorian stand in front, talking while Sera glares at the Inquisitor, like it's her fault Rainier isn’t leaving with them. This will be a fun ride back to Skyhold, Varric thinks, wondering if maybe he could jot down a few pages as they traveled. He really does want to see Cassandra’s face when she finds out what happens to the lieutenant.

#

Funny how intimidating a human size bed can look.

It’s too tall to climb into easily. If Blackwall were here, he’d simply grab her hips and lift her up onto the bed without her even needing to ask. Bethroot turns away from the bed and looks around her small room. It’s been two constant days of travel and after sleeping in a tent with Sera last night, Bethroot’s grateful for her own room in an inn, even if it is full of human sized furniture.

There’s a knock on the door, and Bethroot stills. This late at night could only bring news she does not want to hear. She’s terrified Orlais might kill Rainier now that she’s left the city. His death is a real possibility and Bethroot knows she needs to prepare, but how? Blackwall dying a Warden’s death in the Deep Roads, she could handle. _Thom Rainier_ dying a traitor’s death in Val Royeaux would haunt her for the rest of her life.

“My lady, it’s Josephine.”

Josephine! She must have left Skyhold almost immediately after receiving the news. Bethroot’s heart wants to sing, knowing the ambassador would be fighting for Rainier’s life in Val Royeaux. Bethroot opens the door and Josephine stands there, wearing a traveling cloak, looking exhausted. “Come in,” Bethroot says, which Josephine does at once. “Do you want me to call up for some tea?”

“No, thank you,” Josephine says, sitting down on a wooden chair. “We only stopped to switch horses and drivers, but when I realized you were here, well, I thought you would appreciate an update.”

Bethroot grabs the edge of the table and awkwardly jumps up into the human sized chair before grabbing a pear from the small pile of fruits on the table. She hasn’t eaten nearly as much as she should since learning the truth. Food tastes like dust whenever she sits down for a meal. “He was still in prison when we left,” Bethroot says quietly, realizing she’s not quite sure what to call him. Calling him Blackwall seems wrong, but Rainier doesn’t fit right against her lips.

“We’ve made an official request to have him released to the Inquisition’s custody,” Josephine says slowly. A small smile crosses her lips. “I used my finest parchment with enough flourish in my words to please any Orlesian noble.”

“But they could deny the request,” Bethroot says, taking a bite of the pear and trying to ignore the knot already forming in her stomach.

“That is correct,” Josephine says with a sigh, leaning back slightly in her chair. “I will hope when I arrive in Val Royeaux, he is still alive, so I can make the request in person.” She stands and Bethroot can tell the ambassador is worried. Before Bethroot can ask what’s wrong, Josephine looks at her, as serious as she’s ever seen. “Just how much are you willing to concede to save Rainier?”

The pear lost its taste quickly. Bethroot sets it down before wiping the juice on her fingers off on her trousers. “Not nearly as much as you think,” she says and watches as Josephine’s shoulders slump, in relief, most likely. “If you think this will damage what we’ve built with Orlais or cause actual harm to the Inquisition…” Bethroot feels tears threatening and she angrily wipes them away. Too many gambits are at risk, too many machinations in play. She can’t afford to throw everything to the wolves just for one man, even as much as she wants to. “I trust you, Josephine. Bring him home if you can, but not if it will do more harm than good.”

“You still love him,” Josephine says, a statement, not a question. Bethroot wonders if it’s obvious for anyone to see, just how much she cares still.

Bethroot nods, knowing any other sane woman would be furious at Rainier. But she feels more sorry for him than anything. How alone he must have felt, even as she stood by his side. “If you’re not able to have him released, please do what you can to see him hanged,” Bethroot says. At Josephine’s questioning look she continues. “The rumors all say he’ll be drawn and quartered for his crimes and I-”

“You have my word.” The conviction in Josephine’s voice calms Bethroot’s fear. She can handle anything but _that,_ anything but the thought of him being torn apart _._

There’s another knock at the door and Bethroot jumps, wondering if this is her life now, terrified what message might be waiting for her out there. “Oh no,” she whispers.

“That will be Calliope,” Josephine says as she stands from the table. “I told her to let me know when we’re ready to depart.”

Bethroot grabs Josephine’s hand, clutching it tight. “Thank you. For everything.”

“Safe travels, my lady.”

Bethroot watches Josephine leave before closing the door tight and staring at the big empty human bed. Sleep will not come easily tonight; it hasn’t once since she saw Rainier in prison, and she can’t imagine it will until this ends, one way or another. Perhaps she’ll try her luck on the sofa tonight.


	5. Preparations

“It’s the Inquisition, ma’am.”

And with those words, all is right in Madame Belafonte’s world again. She stands, placing her mask upon her face and smoothing out the front of her dress. As quickly as decorum allows, Belafonte walks into the lobby of the small hotel, where the ambassador, her aides, some guards and even Madame de Fer wait. Heart racing slightly, Belafonte bows low before the group. “I can’t tell you how honored I am to see you all again.”

Her guest look weary and hungry; no wonder, as it’s far past suppertime. “Your usual rooms are unoccupied at the moment.” A quick snap of her fingers and servants appear, carefully picking up the trunks and satchels. “You are, of course, welcome to stay as long as you require. My servants are at your disposal,” she says, keeping her voice low and discreet.

Belafonte knows exactly why they’re here, of course. Practically all of Thedas knows. The Inquisitor and Rainier shared a room several nights together in this very hotel! But while some might use the knowledge as a means to get ahead, Belafonte knows to keep her mouth shut and tell no tales; it’s the only way to _stay_ the Inquisition’s preferred hotel in Val Royeaux.

“We will keep it open ended, for now,” the ambassador says quietly.

“Of course,” Belafonte says, just as softly. No point even allowing the chance that their conversation might be overheard. “Let me bring you to your rooms. And I’ll have a few trays of food sent up as well.” She sets a brisk pace, knowing her guests would want their privacy as quickly as possible. “I must say, I’m so pleased to see you. When I heard the Inquisitor was in Val Royeaux, staying above a tavern…”

“You have done nothing to offend the Inquisition, Madame,” de Fer says. “I’m sure you’re aware these are interesting times, at present.”

Belafonte allows herself a small smile behind her mask. Interesting times, indeed.

#

Vivienne long ago perfected the art of strolling.

When heading to an important engagement, she’s learned not to walk too fast nor too slow, but to give the impression she’s walking _exactly_ at the speed she intends. Josephine’s not quite mastered her stride, clutching her writing board a tad too tightly as she walks. It leaves behind a worried air, one Vivienne would prefer not to be associated with the Inquisition. However, Josephine’s posture is lovely, she will give the ambassador that.

At least it’s a beautiful day for a stroll. This is always her favorite time of year in Val Royeaux, when the leaves of the trees are just starting to turn color and the summer heat is making way for autumn’s chill. Vivienne decides to indulge for a moment, and look at the fashion parading up and down the avenue. This is one of the most influential areas of Val Royeaux, after all. And it seems the prediction she made months ago is correct. There is a great deal of silk brocade, in the royal blue color the Inquisitor favors, but does nothing for her coloring. She gives herself the comfort of one small sigh and decides it could be worse. The Inquisitor could have worn yellow plaid leggings like Sera.

“How is it, Madame de Fer,” the ambassador says just quietly enough so no nosy passers-by could hear, “you are able to provide an introduction to an officer of the law?”

Vivienne smiles to herself and continues to look ahead. “My dear, do you think the Empress’s court has no need for law enforcement?” she asks. “Distasteful as it is, the need is there. Not everything can be handled internally, much as we wish it to be.” After a moment’s debate, Vivienne decides to tell the whole truth; this is too important for machinations. “Several years ago, dear Bastien and I were witness to a most violent crime as we walked the city. Monsieur Satre took our statements - handled the whole affair quite efficiently - and we’ve stayed in touch. One never knows when a law official might be necessary.”

“I do appreciate your help, but I’m curious to know why,” Josephine says. Vivienne can barely hear the hint of confusion in Josephine’s tone, but it is there. “I’ve been under the impression you don’t care for Black- Rainier.”

“And you are absolutely correct. Even before all of this unfortunate affair, I found him to be crude and chauvinistic,” Vivienne says with a shake of her head, remembering the false concern and the pointed tone in his voice when he called her _Madame Vivienne_. “The man treated me like a porcelain doll until he decided veiled barbs were more appropriate. But somehow the Inquisitor found him charming.”

“Yet you came to Val Royeaux and are helping him.”

“I am helping the Inquisition, not Thom Rainier,” Vivienne says, arching a brow, not bothering to hide the acidity in her voice. “I appreciate a good scandal like anyone from Court but this one has the potential to ruin the Inquisitor if not handled correctly.” Realizing her words might give offense, she adds, “Which I trust you to do, my dear. However, when one has resources, one should use them.”

“Your confidence is appreciated,” Josephine says dryly. “Did you hear about the incident when it happened?”

Vivienne nods, remembering the Court’s shock at such a brazen power play. Yes, Rainier was the one who gave the orders to kill everyone and ran at the first sign of trouble, but the chevalier he worked for was truly the one to blame. There were hundreds of bards the man could have hired to handle the matter discreetly, instead of a common soldier. Then perhaps those poor children would still be alive.

But thinking of chevaliers reminds Vivienne that she should have heard from hers by now.  The thought almost makes Vivienne take a step out of turn. She takes a deep breath to center herself again and pushes the thought of Bastien lying so still on the bed, his eyes closed, almost as if-

Dear Bastien will need to have the potion soon. Perhaps the Inquisitor could help once all of this is behind them. In most respects, though young, Bethroot has proven herself to be a steady, practical woman, though Rainier has become quite the blind spot. She would help, if Vivienne could find the will to ask of her a favor. Which she would. Bastien is worth lowering herself a bit.

In the meantime, Vivienne will work to make sure the Inquisitor’s name, and by extension her own _,_ is not dragged down further into the mud.

#

Once a day, Blackwall stands in line with the other prisoners and marches out to a fenced-in yard. Twelve men, all in prison for various crimes, all wearing the same plain linen tunic and trousers. All human, too, not a dwarf or elf among them. Blackwall wonders if the other races are in a separate prison, or don’t ever get the chance to make it to one. Little details like that, he’d never even notice if not for Bethroot.

A Sister stands in one corner, a guard on either side of her, reciting from the Chant of Light, but no one ever pays her any attention. Supposedly she's willing to talk to the prisoners as well, but in the ten days that Blackwall’s been here, not one man has stepped up to talk.

The two weeks of inactivity are wearing on him. His muscles want to move, they want to do what they’re trained for, they want to fight. The simple exercises Blackwall does in his cell every day aren’t nearly enough.

Something needs to happen or he will go mad, he’s certain of it.

But perhaps this is exactly what he deserves: to be shut away in prison instead of being given the dignity of a clean death.

“So is it true?”

Blackwall ignores the shuffle of feet behind him; no one in this prison could have anything to say that he wants to hear. There’s a knothole in this fence, just large enough to see green grass instead of the brown dirt of the prison yard. Every day during his hour outside, he stares out that knothole. He’s not sure why. It’s torture to remind himself day after day that he will never stand on grass like that again. Maybe that’s reason enough.

“They say you were the one fucking the Herald of Andraste.”

The accent is a Marcher’s like Blackwall’s, but crude and cruel. Blackwall takes a steadying breath, ignoring how his partially healed broken rib stings, and crosses his arms over his chest. He will not let these bastards get under his skin. They aren’t worth a second of his time.

Another voice speaks, this time an Orlesian. “How’s that for falling? One day she’s sucking your cock and the next you’re in here with us.”

Blackwall could give a shit about what they say about him at this point, but Bethroot? Absolutely not. He turns and finds himself face to face with three men. All three are taller than him, but leaner, with almost a sickly look. With one glance he can tell the one in the middle is the leader of the trio and that he could best them all, if necessary.

“Don't talk about my lady like that,” he says, dropping his arms to his side and curling his hands in to fists. There’s a dangerous edge to his voice, but he doubts the three louts in front of him even notice.

The one in the middle laughs. “Not much of a lady if she’s fucking the likes of you.”

Blackwall doesn’t hesitate. A simple right hook knocks the bastard to the ground. “Never-"

The other two prisoners jump him immediately and Blackwall’s muscles want to cry out in relief. He might not be able to fight back against the prison guards, but prisoners? Prisoners he can fight. But sadly, these curs have no training or discipline and the fight will be over far too quickly. Killing them is out of the question; he will not have a report sent back to Skyhold that he killed a man, even if it’s a prisoner. But he will gladly render these bastards unconscious. Blood roars in his ears as he slams his elbow into the nose of one while kneeing the other in the stomach.

However, the guards of the prison have other ideas, and respond far more quickly than Blackwall expects. Swords are drawn and orders are shouted and a tiny sliver of his brain thinks this is his chance.

All he has to do is take an aggressive step forward and one of these guards will kill him. All of the waiting, the unknowing, the fucking stillness will end and he can finally _rest._

But then he thinks of Bethroot and her face if she were to find out this is how he left this world. So he puts up his hands as his rib protests, and makes no resistance as a guard slams him against the wall and ties rope around his wrists.

Blackwall’s quiet as he’s walked back to his prison cell. The door shuts behind him and all he can hope is perhaps this will lead him more quickly to the noose.

The sooner he’s dead and his lady can move on with her life, the better.

#

There are times Josephine tires of the power plays.

Her appointment to meet with Ser LeBlanc, a low level bureaucrat, should have begun fifteen minutes ago. Josephine is quite aware of the receptionist’s eyes on her, looking for any sign of impatience or frustration, no doubt, at being kept waiting. But Josephine has been an ambassador for far too long to be openly annoyed by petty machinations. If the bureaucrat truly wanted to throw her off guard, he would have started the meeting on time, instead of posturing by making her wait.

Two days it took to get an appointment with this man. And then she had to wait another two days before he had room in his schedule. Ninety-six hours during which Josephine worried she would hear of Rainier’s death. But so far, they have been lucky. But she has played the Game too long to rely on luck instead of hard work.

Josephine thinks back to her brief meeting with the Inquisitor at the inn, to the fear she saw in Bethroot’s eyes at the thought of the death of her lover. Folding her hands in her lap, Josephine wonders what it must be like to love like that, to love beyond all reason and sense. There is almost an Antivan air to the story, an unapologetic passion for which the Inquisitor fights. If it was a novel, like the ones Cassandra gave Josephine to read, she’s sure would not be able to put it down, desperate to know the outcome.

Josephine can only hope they are living a love story and not a tragedy.

“Lady Ambassador, it will only be a moment longer,” the receptionist says quietly.

“Thank you for the information,” Josephine says in her most diplomatic voice. A moment could be five minutes or five hours. It matters not, as this is the only appointment she has this afternoon.

Her mind wanders again, thinking of the latest letter from her mother. The families are coming closer to an accord and Mother believes the betrothal will be finalized within a few months. Lord Adorno Ciel Otranto. A younger son, _the spare_ , as the saying so crudely goes. But he is more than willing to take the Montilyet name, and an alliance with the Otranto house will bring nothing but good fortune to her family, especially now that her House is able to trade in Orlais again.

But...

Josephine so wants to fall in love, to experience the sort of passion one would feel compelled to document on parchment. Signing a contract sounds so unromantic. But she thinks of her parents. They, too, had an arranged marriage, and love crept up on them. Josephine never doubted as she grew up that her parents loved each other. Perhaps it will be the same for her and Adorno.

“Ser LeBlanc will see you now,” the receptionist says, standing up. Josephine stands up slowly, determined now to set the pace for the rest of the encounter. Her hand brushes her coin purse - which hopefully will not be needed; Josephine finds something so _petty_ about bribes - as she picks up her writing board.

She’s led into a small, cramped office with plain wooden furniture. The bureaucrat stands, wearing a simple tunic and trousers, with an even simpler mask. Her respect for the man goes up, even with the pretentious game of making her wait.

“Pleasure to meet you, Ambassador,” he says. The accent is not from Val Royeaux, Josephine decides. There is a hint of the Anderfels in the accent. He must be from Churneau.

“The pleasure is mine,” Josephine says as she sits. She wears no mask, a tactic she decided upon when she joined the Inquisition. Let everyone see her face and know Josephine Montilyet has nothing to hide. “I appreciate you taking the time from your schedule to meet with me.”

“So the Inquisition wants Rainier alive,” LeBlanc says, picking up a sheet of parchment on his desk. “Well, I do not have the authority to release him, but I can provide a temporary stay of execution. My question is, why should I?”

Right to the heart of the matter. She will not insult him by offering gold straight away. “The Inquisition would be in your debt, ser. And we always pay our debts.”

“An unnamed favor called in at an unnamed time?” He leans back in his chair, sounding far too pleased with himself. “Agreed. But know, Ambassador, I always collect my debts.”

Such a quick acceptance worries Josephine; the man must have something in mind. She shudders to think what it might be. But that will have to wait. Thom Rainier will live for now, that is the most important thing at the moment. But will it be in prison or with the Inquisition? Only time will tell.


	6. The Decision

One does not simply request an audience with the Empress of Orlais. Not even the mighty Inquisition.

Madame Gagne carefully steps out of the carriage, making sure not to catch her dress in the door. This is the moment she has worked for since joining the Inquisition more than a year ago. She serves faithfully in Val Royeaux, providing information and using her connections whenever possible. And now, the ambassador has chosen her to deliver the request for an audience in person.

If only the ambassador knew how appropriate the selection was. Ser Robert Chapuis, the Chevalier who started this all, was Gagne’s cousin. They grew up together as children. And while life took them down different paths - hers through the intrigue of the court while he carried a sword in his hand - they remained close. Though not close enough for him to confide his plans. She would have told him how ridiculous the idea was and maybe he would have listened.

Instead, she walks up the stairs of the Winter Palace, missive in hand, wearing her most ornate mask and best dress. The words Gagne prepared - _The ambassador of the Inquisition wishes a private audience with the Empress of Orlais_ \- repeat over and over in her head. She will not actually meet with the Empress, of course, the most she hopes is a moment with her secretary. The seneschal will also do in a pinch.

Gagne is from a minor noble house, one that would never be invited to a Royal Ball or a weekend hunting. Those invitations go to the more wealthy houses, the ones with coin for Orlais’ seemingly endless wars. But it matters not, because she now stands in the foyer of the Winter Palace, the equal to anyone and important in the eyes of the Inquisition.

She will not let them down.

#

They don’t bother to walk all the way to the War Room. instead making do with the chairs in Josephine’s office. Even sitting down, Bethroot feels the rhythm of the wagon still running through her head. It’s always like this after she travels, a headache and the need for quiet. But quiet is in short supply at the moment. She doesn’t mind too much. It’s better to talk to Cullen and Leliana than listen to the doubts and worries in her head.

“I still believe a slight of hand will be most effective here,” Leliana says crossing her arms over her chest. “We have a man with the same build as Rainier. No one would ever know the difference. Let Orlais think they won.”

“Have I ever let you kill traitors, Leliana?” Bethroot asks in a low voice. When the spymaster looks away, Bethroot continues. “And how does that solve anything? Black- Rainier would have to take up a new identity. He’d have to leave the Inquisition because far too many people would recognize him. I’m not going to do that to him.”

“You did ask for options, Inquisitor,” Leliana says with a wave of her hand.

Options. Kill a traitor to the Inquisition or follow Cullen’s suggestion of raiding the prison. Bethroot puts her head in her hands, not sure if she’d rather laugh or cry at how limiting their options really are.

“I take it my plan isn’t acceptable, then?” Cullen asks, leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs.

“No, attacking the prison isn’t acceptable. It could start a war with Orlais,” Bethroot says. She sits up straight, and even so, the two humans seem to tower over her. So she looks them both straight in the eye, wanting no doubt whose decision this is. “No one dies on Thom Rainier’s behalf, understood?” She thinks of Rainier, wonders how he is, how he’s fared in the last ten days. She tries to picture him, as still as he was when they last spoke, and she simply can’t. “He’ll never forgive me if anyone dies because of him.”

The moment the words leave her mouth, Bethroot regrets them. They’re too personal, too close to her heart to say out loud in front of others. So she turns away when Cullen and Leliana share a quick look.

“But my idea-”

Bethroot latches onto the Leliana’s words, needing something to distract her from her own thoughts. She stands, clenching her fists in frustration and Leliana stops talking. “Rainier is considered a traitor to Orlais. I refuse to send the message to the Inquisition that our people are more important than everyone else.” Her insides seem jumbled and she needs to be in the open air, not standing in front of a fire. “If Rainier is to be released it will be because we asked through official channels and the request was granted. That is all. No decoys, no attacks. Diplomacy.”

Slumping against the wall, she wonders how in the world will she manage another trip so soon after coming back from Val Royeaux. Tomorrow they leave for the Storm Coast and they will have to rush if they are to meet the qunari in time. The thought of sitting sixteen hours a day for the four day trip seems impossible at the moment. But she has no choice. The Inquisition waits for no one, not even the Inquisitor.

“And then what?”

Bethroot looks at Leliana. “Pardon?”

“Say Orlais releases him into Inquisition custody. What then?” Leliana asks and Bethroot hears no malice in her voice, but a genuine curiosity. “Will he be an indentured servant? A free man? What will his role be?”

“I… I don’t know,” Bethroot admits. She’s not allowed herself the luxury of thinking that far ahead, being more interested in simply keeping him alive. “I’ll have to do some thinking, I suppose.”

Her mind wanders, then, trying to picture him back in his favorite spot in the stables. She pictures it easily enough, but her place isn’t so sure. Would he want her back after all of this? Did she want him back? Bethroot loves him still, she knows that, but could they rebuild everything he tore down when he left Skyhold in the middle of the night?

But the truth is she can’t afford to think of these questions, not when no one even knows if Rainier will live or die. And she has an Inquisition to run. Once the alliance with the qunari is settled, then maybe she will have a chance to think.

Assuming he’s alive, that is. 

#

“You’re not as cute as Schmooples, but you will do,” Leliana says softly, running a finger over the crow’s head. This crow recently retired from duty, but refused to fly off into the wild. He stays with the other crows, balancing on a hurt leg, seemingly content. She calls him Fuzzy, since he returned from one delivery covered in white feathers. Her agents like to make up stories how it might have happened. Leliana’s favorite is he fought off a white crow, wanting to steal his message, though he probably just fell into a pile of feathers somewhere.

Footsteps can be heard walking up the steps and she wonders who it might be, this early in the morning. But she does not turn and check, instead pulling out a bit of feed from her pocket for Fuzzy. She’s glad he stayed. Just because someone’s use is over, doesn’t make them disposable. If she truly thought that, Leliana would have never found so many opportunities in this life. She would never have begged Brosca to let her come with; instead she would have stayed safe in the Chantry and then perished with everyone else.

“I’ve seen the Inquisitor off,” Cullen says behind her. “If things go as planned, she’ll be back in three weeks. I thought…” He trails off as Leliana turns to look at him. “I thought we might want to start to consider our options about Rainier.”

“What do you think will happen?” Leliana asks, leaning against a table, curious to know the Commander’s opinion.

“I’ve given this some thought,” Cullen admits. He looks uncomfortable in the Rookery, but he will never fit in Leliana’s world, not when the sword is always his first thought on how to solve a problem. “My advice to her will be to give him to the Wardens. She’s done that often enough in other Judgments.”

Leliana sighs, wondering just how things might be different if Bethroot had fallen for someone, anyone other than Rainier. “But that was when she thought her lover was a Grey Warden.”

“She has a true respect for the Wardens, I find. She asks about the Hero of Ferelden often enough,” Cullen says with a rueful smile. “I barely remember meeting Brosca, to be honest. I do recall wondering how in the world a dwarf with no magic would be able to save the Circle.”

“And now we hope a dwarf will save us all,” Leliana says, thinking of some of her conversations with Bethroot about Brosca. She wanted to know _everything,_ fromwhat sort of bow she favored to her favorite foods. Someday, when the danger is passed, she will invite Brosca to visit Skyhold. It would be good to see her friend again. Smiling, Leliana thinks of what Bethroot’s reaction might be at meeting her hero. Brosca would give Rainier a second chance, just like she had for so many others. Leliana thinks the Inquisitor will do the same. “I think she will pardon him.”

Cullen’s grip on his sword tightens at her words. “If he is to stay at Skyhold, I would prefer he no longer helps train the troops. How can they trust him?”

“It was the Game, Commander,” Leliana says, her eyes narrowing. “It was a clumsy attempt, but in the end it came down to the fact that he overplayed his hand. The more I learn about Thom Rainier, the more impressed I am with him. Not many Marchers could rise as high as he did. Before the investigation, the Imperial Army had his name up to be promoted to Major.”

“You’re really saying you’re impressed with a man who killed children?” Cullen asks and Leliana hears the disgust in his voice. Non-Orlesians would never understand. The Game is as natural as breathing for her. It’s only when people cross the carefully laid out boundaries, like Chapuis did, when there is trouble.

She waves away his concern. “Perhaps I used the wrong word. But it would be good of you to remember that I was a Orlesian bard once. I have killed many in the Grand Game.”

“I will never understand the Game,” Cullen says, shaking his head. “I don’t want to.”

Leliana turns back to Fuzzy, patting him on the head. “You’re a better player than you know, Commander,” she says with a smile. “I’m still amazed at all the broken hearts you left in the Winter Palace.”

As she expects, his cheeks redden. “Oh Maker, not this again.”

She decides to let him off easy. No need to embarrass him. “We have plenty of time to decide how to handle Rainier’s return, if, in fact he does.” Leliana had an agent make a discreet inquiry on what it might take to make sure Rainier never leaves the prison, but unfortunately the prison warden seems not to be susceptible to bribes. 

“That is true,” Cullen says, nodding. “I will leave you to your work.”

Leliana thinks of the reports to read and the agents to deploy, and decides perhaps she’ll spend a few more stolen moments with Fuzzy.

#

When the sun shines through the window just right, this becomes Celene’s favorite room in the Winter Palace. The room is full of crystal, carefully crafted throughout Orlais, and with the sun, it explodes into a million little rainbows. She leans back in her chair and watches them dance around the room.

Her secretary clears her throat. “The next order of business is quite delicate, your majesty. The ambassador of the Inquisition wishes a private audience to discuss Captain Thom Rainier.”

“What would the Inquisition have of us?” Celene asks, thinking of the Inquisitor’s lover. She barely remembers seeing the man at the ball, only hearing shocked whispers that he and the Inquisitor were seen kissing on a balcony. One doesn’t see a dwarf and a human together very often, after all. But seeing that Briala occasionally shares Celene’s bed once again, she will not judge the tastes of others.

Candice pulls out a piece of parchment. “They’ve already submitted a request to have Rainier released to Inquisition custody. I’m assuming they would like to make the same request in person.”

“And this is the man who killed Callier.” She always liked Vincent Callier. She liked his wife, she liked his children. Every Satinalia, she arranged presents for all of the children of her greatest supporters. She has vague memories of hand-drawn thank you cards from his family; a sweet and innocent gesture they need not have made. “Did I ever meet him? Thom Rainier?”

Candice shuffles through her parchments before triumphantly pulling out one sheet. Celene looks over and recognizes the small, neat print of her spymaster. “He was formally introduced twice. Once in 9:31, when he received the Golden Spear is his role in the Perendale campaign. And then again in 9:34, for the Summerday’s Ball, as a guest of General Bouchard.”

“What else is known about him?” Celene asks. She vaguely remembers the ceremony for the Perendale campaign. Her military advisors convinced her to try to take back the surrounding areas of the city. It was bloody and brutal and not worth the cost. Her mind lingers on those days, right after the fear of the Blight and remembers the endless reports of failed battles and casualty reports. She does not wish to repeat those mistakes. Rainier must have done a great deal of good to be awarded anything for that battle, seeing as most of the army seemed content to forget the campaign.

“Not much, I’m sorry to say,” Candice says and Celene hears a hint of intrigue in her secretary’s voice. Candice loves court gossip, just one of the many reasons she’s so valuable to Celene. “There’s just a note that he disappeared with the eldest of Lord Masson’s daughters halfway through the Summerday’s Ball. Her father was not pleased when they returned.”

Celene stands, pushing her shoulders back to take a steadying breath. “Yet now he is the devoted lover of the Inquisitor.” She did like the Inquisitor, a great deal more than she expected. Her smiled charmed, her voice soothed and she always seemed to have the right thing to say. And because of her handling of that night, Briala is back in Celene’s life. At first, Celene couldn’t understand how a dwarf could be so personable. But then she learned of the Inquisitor’s history, how she met with the nobles of Orzammar on a regular basis. “How will this look? Will it appear we are appeasing the Inquisition?”

Before answering, Candice quickly glances through several parchments, causing Celene to wonder what secrets they held. She could ask, certainly, but she trusts Candice to do her job properly. If there is something she should know in those pages, Celene will be told. And perhaps it is best she is not aware of everything done in her name. “Our people adore the Herald. This scandal has caused them to love her even more.”

“But?”

“There are some who say we are already underneath the Inquisition’s thumb. How we handle this will either reinforce that opinion or change their mind,” Candice says. There is no malice in Candice’s voice, just the frank tone Celene has grown to rely on.

Celene’s eyes go to a rainbow in the corner, still moving softly in the light. No woman should be separated from the one they loved. She would never wish to repeat her time apart from Briala, and is sure the Inquisitor must feel the same about Rainier. “We will release Rainier for the right price,” she says, her voice strong. Since the masquerade, Celene has felt a debt, not to the Inquisition, but to it’s Inquisitor. She thinks of everything the Inquisitor did that night to keep Celene alive and on the throne, and to allow Briala step out from the shadows. “They had us at their mercy after the Ball and this is how the Inquisition chooses to use their power. Now let us figure out exactly what we wish in return.” 

Candice’s eyes light up and Celene can see her mind scheming with what exactly they should request. “I have some thoughts.”

Celene settles back in her chair, a slight smile on her lips. The Inquisitor might not even realize what she has done. Releasing one man from prison will make Orlais stronger than ever.


	7. The Terms

Paquet doesn’t know if she should trust the rumors.

Rumors of Thom Rainier’s surrender reached even the Marches. They’re saying he turned himself in to save Mornay. And if that’s true, if it’s really true, it means the bounty is off her head after seven years. Seven years of wandering the Marches, wandering Nevarra, wandering the Anderfels, might finally be over.

The wandering might be over, but Paquet knows she’ll never be free. Not when her arrow killed a thirteen year old boy, trying to protect his sisters. She bows her head as she flattens her palms on the wooden bench, letting the sounds of the Chant of Light being recited seep into her soul. Her favorite hiding spots have always been the Chantry. The sisters ask so few questions, no matter what city or town she hides in.

Now Rainier’s given himself up and Paquet doesn’t understand why. The whispers she’s heard say he’s the lover of someone important, she doesn’t exactly know who. The thought is ridiculous. The man would sleep with any woman with a pulse, except for the ones under his command, as she very well knows. His flat-out refusal to join her in her tent, when so many other officers would be quick to pounce, made her trust him more than anyone back then, and he took that trust and threw it into the mud.

But if the rumors are true, she could go home. She could see her mother again, visit her nieces and nephews and learn once again how to breathe without feeling like she’s going to choke. And as much as as she wants to hate Rainier, if she can return to Orlais, perhaps he finally did right in the end.

#

There’s too much fucking time to think.

Blackwall doesn’t understand why he’s still alive, doesn’t understand why they haven’t killed him already, doesn’t understand why he’s stuck in a cell when he’d much rather be dead. But every time a guard opens his cell, it’s only to give him a bowl of gruel or to empty the bucket of his waste - in the morning, of course, letting him deal with the stench while he tries to sleep. He’s never been more miserable and never more sure he deserves every moment.

Sitting on the edge of his small cot, forearms resting on his thighs, Blackwall tries to quiet his mind, even as it races, trying to think of both everything and nothing at once. And as it happens most days, he thinks about Bethroot.

Somehow, thinking of her future - a future free from him - calms him the most, almost as much as when he’d bring his hand to her neck, feeling her pulse beneath his fingers. She has such a life ahead of her. No doubt she’ll defeat Corypheus, though Blackwall half-heartedly wishes he could be there to see the bastard’s face as she takes him down. But what after?

They never spoke about their future together. How could they when Bethroot thought he’d be dead in a few years from the Calling? He tries to think what he would have done if things progressed that far. Would he have left her? Pretend to hear the Call? Let her escort him to the edge of the Deep Roads? He can’t see that ending in any other way than a disaster.

Blackwall doesn’t like the thought of her being alone once he’s dead, not when he’s painfully aware just how much love she has to offer. So who would be good enough for her? Probably a dwarf; he can’t picture her with another human. Or maybe he just doesn’t want to. He hopes it’s a dwarf, he decides, remembering when Gatsi brought his wife and their two month old son to visit the Main Hall not too long ago.

He’d never seen a babe that tiny before; it never dawned on him that dwarven babies would have to start out so small. But then he saw the look of longing on Bethroot’s face as she held the infant, and heard the stutter in her voice as she told Gatsi’s wife she hadn’t given children much thought. Blackwall’s heart cleaved in two at her words, knowing he’d never be able to give her that; he would never have the chance to father her child.

Footsteps can be heard down the corridor and Blackwall raises his head. It’s lunch time, he thinks, and his stomach is already grumbling. Wouldn’t be surprised if he’s lost half a stone since he’s been here. He carefully looks for any tells to give him a hint who is behind the mask. Then he sees it. A scuff on his left boot. It’s one of the younger guards, one who actually took off his mask to wipe his brow once. He had a kind face, a face that doesn’t belong in prison guarding the worst of humanity.

Blackwall thinks of that face, and decides to risk the question that’s most been on his mind. “Do you know what the hold up is, lad?” He coughs, his voice rough from disuse. “I should have swung by now.”

The guard looks around, as if he expects someone to scold him for talking to a prisoner. “Word is, the Inquisition is getting involved.”

Blackwall wraps his fingers around one of the bars and whispers, “Fuck.” _Oh Bethy, why couldn’t you just leave well enough alone?_

_“_ The prison Warden says you might be released to them,” the guard says. “Nothing’s been decided yet.”

“What if I don’t want to go?” Blackwall asks quickly. What’s he to do if the Inquisition takes control? It doesn’t make any _sense._ Everyone’s bound to know the truth now and what’s he supposed to do? Stay in Skyhold like he hadn’t lied to them all? Like he hadn’t betrayed them? “What if I want to hang?”

“You want to die?” the guard asks and Blackwall hears the surprise in the lad’s voice.

Does he? He’s certainly ready. But what he wants is different. He wants _rest_. He wants to not have to lie every minute of every day. He wants Bethroot to forget him and move on to someone worthy. And if his death will allow these things, then yes, he wants to die.

“The Prison Warden says the Inquisitor saved his sister’s life in the Dales,” the guard says quietly. “And whatever she wants, he’ll make sure she gets.”

Blackwall takes a deep breath, ignoring the stench of the prison, and lets it out slowly. “Thank you,” he says, taking the bowl of gruel. They don’t even give them a spoon to eat with, expecting them to just drink from the bowl.

The guard nods, and walks away, his footsteps echoing as he does. Alone again, Blackwall sits, hating the fact that he has no idea how much longer he has to think.

#

She wonders when he would have been at sea.

There’s so much about him Bethroot doesn’t know, having to be content with the crumbs he threw her, or the bits and pieces she overheard as Blackwall spoke to her other companions. She collected every bit of knowledge like a treasure, and kept thinking if she only had patience, eventually all her questions would be answered. And now she has more than ever and doesn’t know if they ever will.

All Bethroot’s done since they’ve left Skyhold is think. She’s sick of thinking; she wants to _fight_. She’s desperate for the rush that comes with battle, to feel something, anything other than this helplessness threatening to overwhelm her. At least tomorrow she’ll have that chance. Tomorrow they’ll fight besides the qunari dreadnought and make a difference and forge a new partnership.

But first she has to get through tonight, knowing she’s less than five hundred yards from where the original Blackwall died to protect Thom Rainier.

The rest of the camp is busy, preparing for supper. She’s been given no task, not even collecting wood, so she walks up the shore and faces the sea. Her own journey across this very sea she’d rather forget, but it started her on this path to the Inquisition. Bethroot brings out Blackwall’s badge and runs her thumb along the side. She’s not sure why she brought it with her, though she’s kept it with her since the night Rainier left. There’s something comforting about the weight in her hand, the solidness of the wood. The badge lasted for five years out in the cold and rain of the Storm Coast and didn’t splinter or crack. She respects that sort of resilience.

What would she have done if Rainier admitted the truth that afternoon when he found the badge? She tries to picture it, what he might have said or her reaction. Bethroot thinks she would have kept his secret, but the weight of that secret in her hands would have destroyed any chance they had of a relationship. He would explain why they couldn’t be together and she would have finally understood.

Bethroot’s never been particularly good at keeping secrets, so she images at some point, she would have started to resent Rainier and even their friendship would end.

They would have been friends still before that, for a while at least. After all, Bethroot is a murderer and a traitor, too. And she doesn’t even have the excuse of simply wanting gold.

She had a recent letter from Lantos; the Carta still reviles her name and the Dasher wants her dead.

How many of her brothers and sisters has Bethroot killed since the Conclave? It's too many to count and it sickens her stomach. These are the same _dwarva_ who smuggled her mother up from Dust Town in Orzammar, who gave her and her mother food to eat when they were hungry, taught Bethroot to read and write and gave her a position of power.

And Bethroot spat on them all for the chance to help the Inquisition.

When she betrays and kills her clan, it's celebrated but when Thom Rainier does the same thing, it's reviled. She turned on the Carta just like he turned on his men. If Gaspard had become Emperor, Rainier might have become a valuable ally and his actions celebrated.

But Gaspard is dead, thanks to her machinations. Yet another ally she betrayed, who helped her get her foot in the door to save the Empress, and then she stabbed him in the back.

Back in Haven, Bethroot simply shook her head at Leliana's dramatic prayer of a Maker demanding blood. She understands now and wonders if her hands will ever be clean. There's an irony in that she's killed more in the Inquisition's name than she ever did the Carta’s.

She takes a breath and smells stew. Turning, she sees Cole standing there, holding a bowl in outstretched hands. "Thank you," Bethroot says, taking the bowl. Food still doesn’t have a great deal of taste, but there will be battle tomorrow and she needs to keep her strength up. And while she might want to hide from the world until she learns of Thom Rainier’s fate, the world won’t hide from her. So she’ll sit around the campfire tonight, listening to stories, knowing she won’t have to speak, not when some of the Chargers are at camp. They can talk forever.

And while she listens, she'll think of Rainier. The further she is from him, the less she can remember his face, the less she can remember his touch, or his voice. If death is to be Thom Rainier’s fate, Bethroot knows with no doubt she’ll survive his loss. She will mourn, but eventually move on. Her head knows this, but her heart desperately needs him to live.

_Ancestors, please let him live._

#

“Why haven’t we heard anything yet?” Josephine says, resisting the urge to throw her quill on the desk. Oh, how satisfying that would be! “Nine days. _Nine days_ we have been waiting.”

The days have been productive, at least. Josephine attended dinners and parties and made a fuss over those who needed the recognition and provided discreet thank yous to the ones who didn’t. She has done what she can to put the spotlight on herself so that it might draw attention away from the Inquisitor and Thom Rainier. But none of it matters unless they hear back from the Winter Palace.

“How long until a lack of response becomes an insult?” Calliope asks quietly from her desk.

They work in the back room of the Inquisition’s office in Val Royeaux. She corresponded regularly with the office, of course, but until her journey to Val Royeaux, had not actually stepped inside one of the offices across Orlais and Thedas. Now that she has, that she’s seen how well-run and organized the office is, Josephine has decided to expand. There is no reason why they couldn’t have offices in Kirkwall or Hunter Fells or Llomerryn. The Inquisition’s influence could spread all throughout Thedas. The thought fills her with a mixture of terror and excitement. Once the matter of Rainier is behind them, she can focus on her new projects.

“Two more days, I think,” Josephine says, pleased Calliope recognizes that not providing a response is just as powerful as having one at the ready. She picks up her quill and tries to draft the announcement that the Inquisition and the qunari have formed an alliance. The Inquisitor promised to send word the moment the joint mission is done, and Josephine always likes to be prepared. “Vern, have you arranged the gifts for Ser LeBlanc’s office yet?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Vern says with a decisive nod. “I also prepared a basket for Madame Gagne when she arrives with the news.”

“Which will be most welcome, I assure you,” Madame Gagne says dramatically in the doorway.

Josephine’s heart seems to beat without rhyme or reason as she stares in the rolled parchment in the Agent’s hand. “Do you know?” she asks.

Madame Gagne shakes her head as she walks over to Josephine’s desk. “They gave me no hint and I did not want to risk breaking the seal.”

“I can be at the Winter Palace in two days, if need be,” Josephine says, taking the parchment from Madame Gagne’s hands. It is a lovely, light parchment, smooth to the touch. It is the type she hopes they start using at Skyhold, as opposed to the thick, dwarven parchment the Inquisitor favors. Josephine take one long breath before breaking the seal, flattening the parchment on her desk and quickly scanning the words.

She reads them again.

"Madame Gagne, I’m sure you understand our need for privacy at this time,” Josephine says, hearing the the worry in her voice. Calliope must have heard it as well, standing at once.

“Of course, Ambassador,” she says, curtseying quickly. “I shall leave you to your work.”

Josephine waits until the door is shut, leaving the three of them alone. She stands, not able to sit still. “An Orlesian of their choosing to run Suledin Keep. An Orlesian of their choosing to run Griffon Wing Keep. A permanent Orlesian advisor assigned to the Inquisitor.”

“You’re joking,” Vern says, his mouth open wide.

She raises her hand and Vern looks properly abashed at his outburst. “Compensation to Orlais for any able bodied Orlesian who chooses to join the Inquisition instead of the Imperial Army. Any military action in Orlais involving more than five soldiers must be approved by the Imperial Army and requires oversight.” Josephine looks at the last item on the list and wants to laugh. “And the release of Grand Duchess Florianne de Chalons to Orlesian custody.”

“Did the Empress not give the Grand Duchess to Inquisition custody as a gift after the masquerade?” Calliope asks quietly. Josephine looks at the elf, her dark brown eyes simmering with an anger not seen before, an anger Josephine feels stirring in her own heart. She made a _good_ choice with Calliope, she thinks with pride.

“So what does this mean?”

“It means, Vern,” Josephine says slowly, trying not to picture the Inquisitor’s face when she receives the news. “That unless Orlais is willing to negotiate, Thom Rainier will die.”


	8. Parlay

She has never been louder.

Cole watches the Inquisitor stand at the edge of the cliff as she looks onto the sea. She is counting the lives of those she just condemned to death, wondering about their hopes and dreams, and forcing herself to think of them as individual people and not just nameless followers of the qun.

And as she stands there, silent and steadfast, she is screaming inside 

He could make it better. He could make her forget Thom Rainier, forget the distress and the deceit and the disappointment. But Cole knows she does not want to forget. Already she misses the connection and her body cries out, searching. But then, dwarves are always _searching,_ always wanting to be part of something bigger than themselves. Like Varric with his stories and Gatsi with the mosaics. They might not remember what they are searching for, but dwarves are always there: waiting, wanting, wandering.

She is the closest to finding the answer, thanks to the Fade dancing on her palm, and sometimes, late at night after having a dream she will not recall, the Inquisitor’s hand feels like it might not be empty.

_Please let him live, let him live, let him live._

Cole looks away, even as her thoughts pound against his head, and thinks of Thom Rainier. He had always been loud, since the very first moment they met. Full of regret, full of remorse, full of reproach. But when the Inquisitor was close, Rainier’s thoughts did not hurt as much, and there were times when she was asleep and he was not when Cole could barely hear him.

And the Inquisitor is closer to the Old Song when he is near. But now, when she is unaware whether Thom Rainier will live or die, Cole senses she is further away than she ever has been before.

# 

If ever Josephine found herself with some free time at Skyhold, she would go to the training yard and watch some of the spars. It wasn’t the fighting itself she found compelling, but the rituals everyone used to prepare themselves. The Inquisitor would hold her breath while raising her bow above her head before settling into her stance. Blackwall would pound the front of his shield with the flat edge of his sword, just once.

While Josephine fights a different sort of battle, she too has a ritual: she prays, asking Andraste for the wisdom needed for the talks ahead.

Three days have passed, trying to arrange this meeting with the Empress’s top negotiator, a sullen-looking man Josephine knows from her days as Antiva’s ambassador. So much more than Thom Rainier’s life is at stake. It is now a battle for the very relationship between Orlais and the Inquisition. Their lists of provisions proves they are still the bully of Thedas, and Josephine is about to tell them _no_. Will they cower as so many bullies do? There is only one way to find out.

She waits precisely one minute after the starting time and walks in, chin high, writing board not in front, but at her side. Vivienne provided some excellent advice. Calliope and Vern walk a respectful distance behind her. As a group, Josephine is determined they make an impression.

Ser Allard is sitting at the large table, papers in front and Josephine is surprised to see he brought no assistants. “I’m delighted to see you again, Ser Allard. Thank you for taking time from your busy schedule to meet with me,” Josephine says in her most elegant voice. “It’s been ages since we’ve spoke.”

The man’s mask is slightly tilted, giving him a slightly drunken look. “I don’t see what the purpose of the meeting is. You have our demands.” There’s a surliness to his voice and she understands at once that Orlais expects them to agree to every provision readily.

Josephine smiles to herself, pleased he’s showing his hand so quickly. “Demands?” she asks innocently. “I read ideas, suggestions. I certainly didn’t see any demands.” She opens her writing board and brings out the original missive from the Empress. “Shall we discuss each point?”

Ser Allard takes a sip of wine and waves his hand for her to continue. Just as insufferable now as he was then, Josephine decides. “First, I worry no one proof-read the copy of the missive we were sent,” she says, letting steel enter her voice for the first time since she entered the room. “Or perhaps we have a first draft? The Empress does not mean to suggest we return the Grand Duchess to Orlesian custody after she made such a public showing, does she?”

She waits, wondering how he will respond, knowing there is only one way to respond. “I will have to speak to the scribes, lady Ambassador,” he says, not even bothering to read the missive, though he does sit up in his seat. “My apologies.”

“Then we may continue,” Josephine says in a bright voice. “Michel de Chevin will be a perfect leader for Suledin Keep.” She thinks of the frantic message she sent to Skyhold asking for Leliana and Cullen’s opinion on these points. “But as for Griffon Wing Keep, they already have a strong leader and I worry changing things might destabilize the area.” Josephine can tell he’s about to ask who, so she answers. “Knight-Captain Rylen and Commander Cullen met in Kirkwall, did you know? Prince Sebastian sent Rylen there himself. I believe the relationship between Orlais and Starkhaven is cordial, is it not?”

“I suppose those two will work-”

“I’m so pleased you agree,” Josephine says with a smile. “Now, as for an advisor, Sister Leliana, as you know, grew up in Orlais. She would be pleased send weekly reports to the Empress, written by her own hand.” She didn’t add, of course, that Leliana would manage not to reveal anything of value.

“But-”

“And we are willing to pay one gold each for any Orlesian who voluntarily joins the Inquisition forces,” Josephine says quietly. “Give us a week to allow all our recruiting stations to be informed.” This is the point that will cost the Inquisition a great deal of coin. Though not nearly as much as Orlais would like, she suspects.

“That is acceptable,” Ser Allard says, sounding pleased.

“Now the next point,” Josephine continues quickly, wanting to keep him off guard after his apparent victory. “We certainly agree for larger campaigns, such as our march to Adamant, that approval is necessary. And we would welcome a partnership for those battles. But then there are skirmishes and quick outbursts that occur all of the time, you understand. We must be allowed to remain flexible. To deny us this right, you will be forcing the Inquisition out of Orlais.”

Josephine is not surprised that he has no response. She tilts her head slightly, waiting for an answer. This is the point she worries most about, the one Thom Rainier’s life depends on. If they stick to the original point and refuse to give in, Josephine will leave the table and go back to Skyhold. The Inquisitor’s words have stayed with her since their last meeting.

_Bring him home if you can, but not if it will do more harm than good_

The sort of oversight Orlais proposes is just the sort of harm that cannot be allowed. The silence stretches uncomfortably between them and Josephine digs her fingernails into her palm, waiting for the answer that will either save or condemn Thom Rainier.

#

No one feels like celebrating tonight.

Krem does what he can, passing out drinks, slapping the other Chargers on the shoulder, telling them they did everything they could. The Chief does the same, but for the first time since Bull saved Krem all those years ago, Krem sees his heart isn’t quite there, that there’s almost a feeling of a performance to how Bull moves. Krem decides not to call him out on it. Not when two hundred qunari died because Krem and the Chargers couldn’t hold the fucking hill this afternoon.

This will change things, Krem knows. It’s been ages since they’ve gotten their ass kicked so soundly; most of the Chargers don’t remember the feeling. And the Chief… Who knows how it will change the Chief?

When he doesn’t think he can take any more fake smiles or swallows of ale, Krem looks at the Inquisitor, who sits in front of the bonfire with her knees up against her chest. She’s barely said a word since the Chargers met up with her three days ago. And that’s what he wants right now. Quiet.

He supposes she’s thinking of Blackwall. Krem never truly liked him, he has to admit. They’ve sparred a few times and Krem respects him as a warrior. As a man? Well, Krem’s never had use for anyone who thinks he’s more of a man because he fucks a woman with a cock. Word got around what he said about Dorian. And what a man Blackwall turned out to be, killing unarmed women and children.

But then he sees the Chief go into his tent and for the first time since the mission ended, Krem is truly worried. The Chief is never the first to go into his tent. Ever. He decides to follow and offer any sort of support he can. The Chief helped him more than once over the years, Krem would like to do the same.

Chief’s sitting in the middle of the tent, legs crossed underneath him, and doesn’t even look up when Krem steps inside. “Tal-va-fucking-shoth,” Chief says in a low voice.

Krem’s mouth goes dry and he tries to think what more he could have done, what he might have done differently in order to save the dreadnought. He can’t think of a damn thing, so he sits down across from Bull. “Doesn’t that mean you can do what you want now?” Krem asks, trying to smile when he wants to do anything but. “And think how much more time you’ll have to fuck now that you don’t have to write those damn reports every day.”

Bull’s lips turn up slightly, just enough that Krem decides it counts as a victory. “The redheads won’t know what hit them,” he says, looking up with a sly smile. Krem realizes his face must have looked worried, because Bull adds, “Don’t worry, Krem. Harding’s off limits.”

“Thanks,” Krem says, warming slightly as he thinks of Lace. They’ve kissed a few times now, and she knows about, well, everything. One day soon, when she’s back at Skyhold, maybe they’ll find an empty room instead of fumbling around in a tent. And then since the thought won’t leave his mind, Krem decides to ask the question. “Why’d you let the Inquisitor make the call?”

“I blew the horn for the retreat,” Bull says quietly, but there’s an anger Krem hears behind the words. “Not the Inquisitor.”

“I heard what happened, Chief. She gave you permission first,” Krem says. Maybe he shouldn’t be asking, but he’d like to know what ran through Bull’s mind. “You knew exactly what she would do, didn’t you?”

Bull doesn’t respond for a moment, taking the time to crack his knuckles. “She doesn’t give up on her people,” he finally says. “Look what she’s doing to save Rainier. Of course she’s willing to piss off the qunari to save the Chargers.”

Because for once, the Chargers weren’t able to save themselves. Tevinter bastards got the best of them. Krem’s going to make sure it never happens again and the words come out before he can stop them. “I’m sorry-”

“That you didn’t bring me an ale? Damn right you should be.”

Krem thinks about finishing the apology but decides to get Chief the ale instead. He can’t change this afternoon. He can’t fix things with the qunari. But he can get Bull something to drink.

After he leaves the tent, he looks over at the Inquisitor, still sitting and staring into the fire, and hopes the decisions she’s made over the past few weeks don’t come back to haunt the Inquisition.

#

Blackwall’s a man who thrives on routine. It’s one of the reasons he did so well in the Orlesian army. Granted, as a younger man, he preferred the chaos of not knowing what the day would bring. Who would he meet? Who would he fight? Who would he fuck? But that excitement, that blindness, made him undisciplined, and the army kicked that out of him quickly.

So when it became clear Orlais was in no hurry to have him hang, Blackwall started a routine. After waking up and taking a piss, he washes himself as best he can, using the water which leaks from the ceiling. Then he combs out his beard with his fingers, not having shaved in nineteen days. His bloody beard had been his one vanity and now he’d rather shave it all off than have it be the mess it is now. But they would never trust a prisoner with a straight-edged razor, not even to shave.

Then there are the exercises, calisthenics to try to keep himself somewhat in shape. At least it’s something to do, something to clear his mind, instead of staring at the walls.

And after breakfast, when he has nothing to do except sit and wait until lunch, he thinks back upon his life, and wonders if there is anything he’s touched that he hasn’t fucked up. Most men have more to show for their lives than a trail of destruction, which is all Blackwall is able to offer the world.

He hears footsteps and sits up straight. No one walks this corridor this time of day. And when the prison guard stops in front of Blackwall’s cell, he holds his breath, wondering if at last he’ll finally hang. “Rainier? You’re to come with me.”

Blackwall stands and lets out his breath. When the door opens and no one makes a move to tie his hands behind his back, he understands. His lady had her way.

He’s led into a small room and he sees his clothes in a pile. Suddenly terror and fury are warring inside him and he desperately needs to hit something. He cares for Bethroot so much, but she has no right, _no fucking right_ , to stomp on his choices and pretend they don’t matter. He left her to die as one man and now will return to her a stranger.

“Get dressed,” the guard says, sounding bored, unaware of the anger Blackwall keeps inside. If there’s anything he’s good at, it’s keeping things hidden. So he’ll bury this deep until he sees Bethroot again. “It’s all there.”

Blackwall turns his back to the guard as he takes off the thin linen tunic before picking up his own undershirt. It’s clean, at least. But after three weeks of nothing but linen, the heavy gambeson seems to weigh him down. Though there’s something to be said for wearing sturdy boots again after those carpet slippers. Once his gloves are on, he realizes something is missing. He looks on ground, checks his pockets, even flexes his fingers to make sure it’s not in his glove. It’s not here, the one thing he thinks he needs more than anything.

“I had a handkerchief when I came in,” Blackwall says, trying to keep the desperation from his voice and looking at the guard in the eye for the first time since they entered the room. “It’s not here.”

The guard shrugs, an awful, dismissive move. “That’s all there is.”

Blackwall’s throat constricts that the thought of having lost the token his lady made him. For six months, he’s kept it with him, tucked in his glove, and when fear and doubt threatened to overwhelm, all he needed to do was pull out a corner and look at the crooked stitches or the few drops of dried blood and things seemed to make sense again.

He’s no idea what awaits him when he sees the Herald again. She’s earned every right to chuck him out to the street, but he hoped he would still have her token if she did, to remember that she loved him once.

The door opens and two guards from the Inquisition walk in, one holding a pair of manacles. Blackwall doesn’t recognize either, but there are so many these days it would be impossible to do so. “Sorry about this,” the one guard says, grabbing Blackwall’s wrist. “Ambassador’s orders. Everything has to be done by the book until your Judgment.”

_Judgment_. The word nearly knocks the wind out of him, the thought of standing in chains before Bethroot sitting on her throne, for all of Skyhold to see. She will find him wanting. How could she do anything but?

The other guard, a man of about thirty, crosses his arms over his chest. Blackwall hears an Orlesian accent when the guard speaks and doesn’t bother to hide the disgust in his voice. “Can’t look like she’s playing favorites.”

So it begins, Blackwall thinks. Now he’ll go back to Skyhold, where once people looked up to him, respected him, where he was a person of importance. Now he’ll be no better than a thug, a traitor and someone to avoid. And he knows it’s nothing more than he deserves.


	9. Freedom

“Did you hear? Blackwall’s on his way back to Skyhold.”

“We’re on duty, Jessa, we shouldn’t be gossiping,” Mac says, pushing his helmet back. He hates these Inquisition soldier uniforms, especially the helmets.

“We’re patrolling the ramparts, not exactly a thrilling assignment,” Jessa says as she adjusts the shield on her back. “I’ll be glad when he’s back. I finally felt like I understood what he was going on about when it came to shields.” Mac stops at once and Jessa takes a few steps before she seems to realize. “Don’t want to gossip, but you’ll just stop walking? Have it your way.”

“You actually want to keep working with that monster?” Mac asks, sure he must have heard her wrong. The man let his own troops to die to save himself. There’s no coming back from that, no matter how much he tries with the Inquisition.

Jessa sighs. “Show me someone better with a sword and shield,” she says, and Mac doesn’t appreciate the patronizing tone in her voice.

“The Lady Seeker.”

“Perhaps,” Jessa says with a nod. “But ask her for help? She gets impatient if you don’t figure it out on the first try. Blackwall acts like he has all the time in the world to help you learn.” She crosses her arms over her chest and leans back. “So yes. I will ask that monster for help if he’s willing.”

Mac starts to walk again, looking for marks along with walls with possible codes or messages, like the Nightingale instructed. It takes Jessa a moment to catch up and he wonders how many other soldiers feel like she does. And how many agree with Mac? He doesn’t like the idea of a divided camp, but it looks like that might be exactly what they have.

#

Josephine waits by the carriage, ignoring the pressure at her left temple, and instead wishes the day would end.

She’s barely slept since she received the missive from the Empress, to make sure everything would be ready for this moment. And suddenly the door opens and there he is, hands chained and squinting thanks to the bright autumn day. Rainier looks awful, thinner than before, his beard an absolute mess. As he walks closer, she sees a yellowish bruise on his cheek and one eye is half-swollen shut.

There’s a part of her that’s glad the Inquisitor will not see him like this, and won’t until well after the mages at Skyhold have a chance to heal whatever injuries he received.

Maker, what had they _done_ to him in prison?

For a moment, Josephine thinks to send a message to Ser Allard, protesting Rainier’s obvious mistreatment. Already she starts to draft the missive in her head, before taking a moment to think. In the end, what good would it do? Relations between the Inquisition and Orlais need not be strained any further because of one man.

Rainier’s eyes don’t stay still, darting from side to side, clearly searching for the Inquisitor. “She is at the Storm Coast,” Josephine tells him.

He looks at her then and she feels her mouth go dry. “Of course, the alliance,” he says, glancing to the ground. “Ambassador…” His voice trails off and Josephine is not quite sure what to say. She wonders if the Inquisitor ever told him about her own past, how she, too, killed in the name of the Game. It’s at that moment she decides to concentrate on the man who joined the Inquisition as opposed to the captain of the Orlesian army. No matter his past, he’s done a great deal of good for the Inquisition and it is important she remembers this.

“This was the Inquisitor’s decision,” she says, wishing there was a way to tell him Bethroot still loved him without betraying her confidence. Then perhaps he wouldn’t seem so broken. “I simply aided things along.”

Rainier nods, and Josephine thinks he might understand better than anyone just how much would have to be done to secure his release. The man did survive the Game for more than twenty years, after all. “Are you coming back to Skyhold, as well?”

Josephine shakes her head. “I have more business to attend to,” she says, thinking of all the work she’d like to complete before leaving Orlais, if the Inquisition is to meet the Orlesian demands in time. She takes a step closer and lowers her voice. “Once you’re out of the city, the guards have instructions to release your bonds until you’re back at Skyhold.”

“And then?” His voice almost shakes, like he both dreads and welcomes his return.

“Unfortunately, we will have to keep you in a cell until Judgment. Appearances must be maintained,” Josephine says, hearing the apology in her voice. If only he would not wear defeat so on his shoulders. Perhaps it is too much to ask for hope when there is still a Judgment ahead of him.

Rainier nods, looking down at the manacles around his wrists. “How is she? How is she taking all this?”

“I have not seen her in two weeks,” Josephine admits. “She doesn’t know you’ve been released yet. It will take some time for the crow to get to Skyhold and a runner out to the Coast.”

“But how is she?”

“Tired,” Josephine says honestly, thinking back to the last time she saw the Inquisitor, as she begged not to have Rainier drawn and quartered. _Missing you,_ she think silently, before adding, “I do not think she was eating as much as she should.”

“Go to le Barre Chocolat Confiserie,” Rainier says with a tilt of his head. His Free Marcher accent surround the words heavily, and suddenly Josephine understands all the rumors she’s heard, of Thom Rainier’s way with women. To an Orlesian woman, he must have seemed almost exotic and possibly a bit dangerous, a combination tempting for many. “There’s a moss candy they stock. It’s her favorite.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Josephine says, making a note to send Vern there at once. From the corner of her eye, she sees Calliope signal her. “And I have an appointment to keep. I wish you a safe journey, Ser Rainier.”

Josephine turns and decides not to acknowledge the way he winced at hearing his name.

#

It takes every ounce of Blackwall’s strength not to tear into the food being placed in his hands. He’s been given a bowl of broth and a crust of bread. Simple food, but after almost three weeks of prison gruel, it smells like a seven course banquet.

“It’ll be hard, but you don’t want to eat that too quickly,” one of his guards, Lester, says.

Blackwall nods and carefully brings a spoonful of broth to his lips. It’s fairly bland, but it’s hot and slides down his throat easily, unlike the gruel which he seemed to need to swallow twice. He takes a breath of clean autumn air and for a moment, he can pretend he’s not a prisoner any longer. Granted, the three soldiers he travels with have been generous. Already he’s had a wash in a nearby stream and Lester lent him a straight-edge razor and a tin of wax for his moustache. Now with decent food in his stomach, sitting in front of a warm fire with the night sky above him, Blackwall almost feels human again.

His stomach wants to protest at the solid food and before he can stop himself, he lets out a small belch. “Pardon.”

Lester chuckles and digs into his own food. “No ladies about tonight, so no apologies needed,” he says. “I was serious, though. You need to eat slow. When I was a lad, I had some time in the stocks and then gaol. First thing I always did when I got out was gorge myself and I always paid the price.”

Blackwall looks at Lester with a renewed interested. The guard is a man around Blackwall’s own age, which is rare. Most of the recruits are younger men, eager to prove themselves. But not Lester, who’s always content with whatever the Inquisition asks of him. Blackwall’s never heard the man complain. They’ve had pints together more than once in the tavern and before all this, Blackwall might even have considered Lester a friend.

One thing Blackwall is good at is listening to advice, so he forces himself to eat even more slowly. The other guards ignore him, which is about what he expects. Once, they would happily listen to his stories and ask for his advice about fighting, women and life. Now these other guards would rather have him out of their sight.

“So why’d you do it?”

And there’s the question. His inner hermit wants to rebel against the invasion of his privacy; no one has the right to ask those questions. Though he lost that right the moment he left the Storm Coast without telling Bethroot the truth.

Once he had an answer he believed in: gold. It always came down to fucking gold, feeling like he never, ever had enough, and wanting to be better than _them._ He doesn’t even know who _they_ are any more - could be nobles, chevaliers, higher ranked officers. There are times he can still remember his mother’s hand on his chin telling him, _You’re better than they are, Thomas._

“Wish I had a good reason, but I don’t,” Blackwall says quietly. The other guards in the camp are still and clearly listening to his every words. “I thought I needed the gold.”

“And after?”

Blackwall hears no accusation in Lester’s voice, only curiosity. He’s fairly certain he’ll be answering these questions again and again once he gets back to Skyhold; he might as well practice now. “I’ve no excuse except for my own cowardice,” Blackwall says as honestly as he can, remembering the night he ran. How he already had a satchel packed by the time a scout came to warn him, thinking he wasn’t about to die so some other officer could get a promotion by stepping on his corpse.

And because he decided his life was more important than those under his command, three good people died after Blackwall convinced them to trust him. Trembley, Nia and Yount. Dead because of him.

Lester keeps silent, and Blackwall goes back to eating his broth. After he finishes, he offers to clean up and the other guards seem to have no issue letting him. Blackwall takes his time, walking to the stream and back, grateful for the chance to stretch his legs.

When Blackwall’s settled in front of the fire again, Reyer, another of the guards, seems to have gotten over the his disgust and asks, “What’s she like? The Herald?"

It’s hard to remember sometimes that to most of the Inquisition, his lady is a figure larger than life, someone they might only ever see from afar, when Blackwall was lucky enough to share her bed almost every night. And now? He’s not sure of the role he’ll play in her future, so he says, “I don’t know if I have the right to answer that anymore,” hearing the distress in his own voice.

The answer seems to satisfy Reyer and the topic switches to news from the Griffon Wing Keep, which is positive. He could tell them about the battle for the Keep, how after it finished, Bethroot went to climb up a ladder and missed a rung, falling straight on her arse. Blackwall was on the verge of worry until he heard how hard she started laughing, making everyone else around her laugh, too.

It’s _those_ moments Blackwall treasured, knowing one day they would eventually end. If their relationship is finally over, it’s the little things he’ll miss the most.

#

Every time she hears the wings of a bird overhead, she looks up.

Bethroot knows it’s silly. No crow will find her out here, out in the Driftwood Margin wilderness. The most she can hope for is a runner waiting for her when they return to camp. Yet with each sound, she can’t help but check.

Her companions are tired today, sore from rowing that damn boat after a long fight with the Red Templars. No one seems to really want to speak, and for once, Bethroot doesn’t mind. She’s taken more hits over the past ten days than she ever has before and her body hates her for it. Her shoulder is in agony - thanks to that Red Templar Stalker - and no matter how many potions she drinks, the sharp pain refuses to subside. Thankfully, tomorrow they’ll load up the wagon and head back to Skyhold. She’s glad. Her body needs the rest and her mind could use the quiet. 

“You know that’s not how crows work, right?” Bull asks as she looks up once again.

“I used to be a smuggler, of course I do,” Bethroot says dully. But then she spots the Inquisition banners, telling them they’re almost at camp. Warm food sounds just about perfect. A fire, if even possible in this constant state of drizzle, sounds even better.

The guards eagerly welcome them back, wanting to hear how the raid went. Bethroot lets Iron Bull talk as she sets down her quiver and bow, her body all but crying out in relief. The lead guard, Henson, she thinks his name is, hands her a plate of fish and turnips, along with a mug of some sort of ale.

And as Bethroot’s about to take the first bite, that’s when she sees the runner.

She feels cold inside, so cold, like she might never be warm. The answers she’s waiting for are with that runner and Bethroot isn’t sure how she will keep sane until the woman reaches the camp. So she sets her food down, stands up, and walks to the edge and waits. A year seems to pass before the runner is within earshot, and then right next to Bethroot.

“No idea what it says, Inquisitor,” the runner says, a young elven girl of maybe twenty years. She’s breathing heavily as she hands Bethroot the scroll.

Bethroot takes the offered scroll and clutches it to her chest. “Let’s get you some water,” she says, turning back towards the camp. She’s stalling, why is she stalling? Why hasn’t she ripped the scroll open yet to learn what it says?

“They’ll take care of me, your Worship,” the girl says with a grin. “Go on, then. I want to know what it says, too.”

As she walks a few more steps away from the camp, Bethroot runs her thumb over Josephine’s ambassadorial seal. Now that the answer to her question is in her hands, she’s terrified. What if he’s already dead? She loves him so much, the thought of opening this scroll only to read of his death will surely be too much to bear.

Less than three weeks ago, she turned twenty-six. How much can one person stand before they’re allowed to cry out _no more?_ Lantos’ betrayal, her mother’s death, the Conclave, all of sodding Thedas depending on her, and now this scroll.

She takes a deep breath and with a shaking hand, unfurls the scroll. Josephine’s elegant script stares back at her and at the very top are the two most important words Bethroot ever recalls reading: _He lives._

Bethroot drops to her haunches, and tries to control her breathing. Falling apart in public is absolutely not an option. She hasn’t once since this whole thing started more than a month ago and she refuses to start now. Her tears are _hers_ and hers alone and she will not share them with anyone. So she reads the rest of the scroll quickly. The exact terms are not laid out in print, in case of capture, but Bethroot senses from Josephine’s words that a great deal was given up to obtain Rainier, but not too much, not enough to make Josephine leave him to his death.

Rainier will be on his way to Skyhold now, might even be there already. When she gets back to the castle, she will have to render Judgment on the man she loves. Bethroot has never felt comfortable with Judgments, but it’s practically demanded of her. How can she possibly be expected to be impartial when it comes to Thom Rainier? What will it say about her if she’s not able to give a fair ruling? There is no right answer to this. No matter what she decides, someone is bound to be upset.

And as Bethroot stares out into the sea, she wonders how much more weight her shoulders can take.


	10. Skyhold, Part II

“I fought with him in Perendale,” Desmond says, scratching his neck. The scar on his left cheek itches like mad, but he knows better to take off his mask in the presence of other Orlesian soldiers, especially higher-ranking ones. Once, when he first came to Skyhold, he hoped not to wear the mask at all, but all the others insisted. Damn things threw off his balance and cut his sight lines in half.

The other soldiers cock their heads, showing their curiosity. With masks covering their entire faces, the military created a second language of sorts, using the body. Knowing his story is wanted, Desmond continues. “Worst campaign I’ve ever been on in my life. I will never understand what the Empress was thinking when she sent us there. Rainier was a lieutenant then.” Desmond stops and realizes he doesn’t want to speak any longer, doesn’t want to relive those memories.

“And?” one of the soldiers asks. He doesn’t know her name, but she sounds young.

“They called the retreat and men just scattered,” Desmond says, suddenly grateful for his mask, even though it won’t cover the hollowness of his voice. “A few men, Rainier one of them, Mornay as well, kept going back to the battlefield. Carried off the ones who might be saved and gave quick deaths to those who couldn’t. He must have brought back a dozen men before he collapsed.”

“Pity he lost the Game,” the other soldier says, voicing what they all thought.

He nods. Murderer or not, Thom Rainier had done a great deal of good in Orlais’ name until the Callier Incident. Even if it was all an act, a way to get ahead, the Imperial Army needed more men like him.

#

At least Skyhold empties his waste bucket three times a day.

Food’s much better, too, Blackwall thinks as he looks at his plate of boar’s meat and vegetables. The Skyhold prison is much quieter than Val Royeaux’s, with much more understanding guards. Not to mention they gave him medical attention; a mage fixed his broken rib right up. All in all, he can think of worse places to be caged.

“Beardy.”

He looks up from the bench he’s sitting on and sees Sera standing in front of his cell. “Didn’t think I was allowed visitors,” Blackwall says, leaning back against the wall, feeling the corners of his mouth turn up in a smile for the first time in a _very_ long time. It’s damn good to see her. Sera’s the one person beside Bethroot he actually considered telling the truth.

“Chatted up the guard, I did. We’re meeting for drinks later,” Sera says, lowering herself to the ground, sitting cross-legged. She looks pointedly at his wooden plate. “Are you going to finish that?”

“I lose half a fucking stone in Orlais and you want to eat my food?” Blackwall asks with a laugh. Some things never change. “Some friend you are.”

“I’m the best sort of friend, yeah? I’m here,” Sera says with a shrug. “Not off to the Storm Coast like some.”

Blackwall sighs and takes another bite of meat. It’s cold, but hearty, and will fill his stomach easily. Sera and his lady have never gotten along well, much as he tried to say only good things about the other. Best to let her rant and get it out of her system. “Say what you mean, Sera.”

“She left you in Orlais. Orlais, when you could have been hanged,” Sera says angrily, crossing her arms over her chest. “And look at you now.”

“The Inquisitor needed to get to the Storm Coast, you know that. The alliance with the qunari is more important than one man’s life,” Blackwall says quietly. Even if Sera doesn’t or chooses not to understand, he does. For as long as it took to have him released, people would have frowned on the Inquisitor staying in Val Royeaux the entire time. And the last thing he wants is to cause her harm, any more than he already has.

Sera fiddles with a hem on her dress. “Well, word is the alliance went belly up,” she says. “So she went out there for nothing. And could have been getting you out instead.”

He feels a chill at Sera’s words. What could have possibly happened to fuck it up? They spoke at length about the possibility of an alliance and decided it would only bring good things for the Inquisition. Guilt pools in his stomach for not being there, to help fight or support his lady. But then a sharp realization hits that if he had his way, he’d be dead and never there to support her anyway.

“Who went with her?” Blackwall asks to change the subject. Since the day he and the Herald met, he’s fought by her side more often than not. The only time before this he couldn’t go with her, because of his blasted knee, was when she went to Emprise du Lion. They’ve learned how the other fights, how to best use their abilities together. He’s become a stronger warrior with her at his back. “Cassandra?”

“Bull, Cole and Solas,” she says, shaking her head. “Sure that’s going to be fun in camp.”

Blackwall lets out a groan before he can help himself. “Bull cares more about killing than protecting. She’ll be black and blue by the time she gets back.”

“Well, maybe think about that, right, next time you pick up and leave.”

She looks so fucking young. And she is, Blackwall needs to remind himself sometimes. Only twenty-one, from what she’s told him. Yet they could drink for hours, talking about women and nothing at all in her little alcove in the tavern. She’s one of the most important people in his life and he can tell he’s angered her. “Sera-”

“You could have left me a note, too, you know,” Sera says, bringing her knees up to her chest. She sounds a bit lost and he understands. Somehow, they became family over the past year and half and he ran out on her just as much as the Herald. “I didn’t want to believe it when Quizzy told me you left. Pissed her right off, I did. Kept asking what she did to drive you away.”

“Of course you did,” Blackwall says, putting his plate of food on the floor. He’s lost his appetite for now. “I wasn’t exactly thinking straight when I left.” He looks Sera in the eye and she squirms a bit, but doesn’t break the contact. “I should have let you know somehow that I was leaving. You deserved that right. I’m sorry.”

A pleased smile crosses her face, even as she waves away his apology. “Well, remember that for next time, Beardy. Will there be a next time?”

“Maker, I hope not,” Blackwalls says, meaning every word. “I’m done running.”

“Think Quizzy will forgive you?”

Blackwall tries to picture their reunion. There’s a temper that runs throughout his lady’s blood, a temper she doesn’t let out very often, but it’s there. And if anyone deserves to be on the other end of that temper, it’s him. But when he continues to think, he realizes he has absolutely no idea how she’ll respond, and a small part of him would rather not find out at all. “Guess we’ll just have to wait and see.”

#

“One gold for every Orlesian in the Inquisition?” Cullen asks, gripping the end of his sword’s pommel. Perhaps it’s silly to carry a weapon on him at all times in Skyhold, but after Haven, after Kirkwall, the sword gives him a stability he’s not afraid to admit to himself that he needs. One day, he might not need a sword with him, but for now, the solid weight of the sword in its scabbard and the hilt in his hand, gives him comfort.

Josephine’s face is stern as she leans back in her desk chair, just slightly. “On the surface, it might look like that. However, when one looks at the details…” She looks exhausted, of course she does, having just making it back to Skyhold this morning. “The arrangement is that for any Orlesian who willing joins the Inquisition’s armed forces, we will compensate the Imperial army with one gold. Many Orlesians join and we find them other paths, instead of our forces. And don’t forget, the majority of our forces to begin with are gifts from Orlesian nobles. We do not pay for them.” A slow smile spreads across her face. “I think we’ll find we won’t be providing Orlais with nearly as much gold as they expect.”

Cullen chuckles. Of course Josephine found the perfect language to make things work in their favor. “I still worry, though. This whole situation makes us look weak.”

“I disagree,” Leliana says, with a shrug of her shoulder. “From what I can tell from my agents, the people love the Inquisitor more than ever, _especially_ Orlais. This whole thing has made her seem more human than ever to the common folk.”

“Human?” Josephine asks with a smile.

“A poor choice of words on my part.”

When he first joined the Inquisition, Cullen felt slightly left out, thanks to the long friendship between Leliana and Josephine. But since Haven’s destruction, those walls have been torn down. They make an excellent trifecta, which is exactly what the Inquisitor deserves. And thanks to the long hours they spend together, he is able to look at Josephine’s face, see the slight wrinkle between her brows and prepares himself for unfavorable news.

“The result of the negotiation is not why I called you both to my office,” Josephine says, placing two scrolls on her desk.

Cullen looks at Leliana, who seems as mystified as he at the summons. “Is there any chance it’s good news?” Leliana asks lightly.

At Josephine’s frown, Cullen crosses his arms over his chest with a snort and says, “I knew it. What’s the problem now?”

“I received two messages today,” Josephine tells them. “The first is from the Inquisitor, who should arrive back at Skyhold in two days. She wishes to hold a private Judgment for Thom Rainier the moment she is back.”

“I don’t see a problem with that,” Cullen says with a nod. “This is private Inquisition business. Maker, they’ll have enough issues between them that I don’t even think I’ll want to be there.”

“I agree,” Leliana says. “The fewer people who know, the better.”

The curve to Josephine’s spine, the slight hunch of her shoulders, tells Cullen that she doesn’t agree. “Josephine?” he asks, wanting everyone’s opinion.

“We’ve never had a private Judgment before,” Josephine says, almost apologetically. “I feel it would set a bad precedent. However, that does bring us nicely to the next issue.” She pushes another sheet of parchment towards him. “This is a letter from Antoine Callier. Vincent Callier’s brother.”

Leliana snatches up the scroll before Cullen is able. He thinks of his own siblings, if one of them and their families were killed. It’s an awful thought, one he doesn’t even want lingering in his mind, so he pushes it away before the image can settle. One day, the first words in his head won’t be _revenge_ , which eats at him until he finds better words, more peaceful words _._ “What does he say?” Cullen asks.

“He worries because of the close relationship between the Inquisitor and Rainier, she’ll try to cover everything up.”

Cullen grips the pommel of his sword more tightly. “The Judgment will have to be public, then. There’s no choice.” The Inquisitor will hate every moment of the Judgment, but too much is at stake except to do everything above reproach.

“None at all,” Josephine says, rolling up the parchment. “Perhaps if we have it early in the morning?”

“It will be packed no matter what, Josie,” Leliana says. “Already people are waiting for news of the Herald’s return to Skyhold. You know how quickly news travels. It will be standing room only in the Main Hall.”

“Vultures,” Cullen mutters under his breath, knowing Leliana is right. Still, as he told the Inquisitor back in Val Royeaux, only she is able to make the decision if Thom Rainier is worthy for the Inquisition. He does not envy her for having to make that decision at all.

#

Her ass hurts.

They’ve been sitting in the wagon since sunrise this morning with hardly any breaks. Bethroot is tired of being thrown around, thanks to the rocky mountain path, tired of sitting, and tired of waiting. Every turn of the wheels of the wagon makes her more nervous, until she thinks she’ll be forced to stand up and scream.

She can’t remember being this nervous since her first trip to Orzammar, her head full of stories from her mother, and the knowledge if she said the wrong thing or pissed off the wrong people, she could end up with a brand on her cheek.

Her fingers grip the side of the wagon once they make it up the path and start over the drawbridge. Even with her nerves, there’s still a sense of _coming home_ when the gate raises and they ride into the courtyard. Bethroot’s come to love every brick of this place, especially when she considers how as a child, she and her mother moved from place to place, never settling down for long.

It’s then she realizes the number of people milling about the courtyard, far more than there should be this time of night. Another glance and she sees that the vast majority are looking her way. Of course they are, she thinks, wondering if she’s to be a spectacle for the rest of her life. How much more of herself can she give until it is enough? Her marked hand curls into a fist - it’s been bothering her a bit lately - and she answers her own question. Whatever she is able to give will never be enough.

She’s grateful night has already fallen. Her plan is simple. Judge Rainier the moment she steps into Josephine’s office - but what will she say? - and tell Rainier they will speak in the morning. And then Bethroot plans on falling asleep in her bed and not waking up until she does so naturally. It might be a couple of days, the way she feels right now. Fear and weariness and anger are all tangled up, running through her blood, and she doesn’t think she could separate the emotions from each other if she wanted.

The wagon stops  - _finally_ \- and Bethroot jumps out, almost falling on her face because of the height. Usually Blackwall’s steady hand would be waiting to help her out of the wagon somewhat gracefully. The thought leads her to look into the stable. The rocking horse Blackwall worked on for so long still stands on his workbench and without thinking, she steps inside.

She’s not often been here alone, without Blackwall’s steady hand on her shoulder when the horses inevitably frightened her. Taking a breath, she smells straw, horses, and yes, even a hint of manure. Funny how she used to wrinkle her nose at the stables when they first arrived at Skyhold, but now she can breathe in deeply and it doesn’t bother her at all.

The usual fire in the firepit is out; hasn’t been lit in weeks from the looks of it. Nothing else has changed. No one moved his bedroll or the pile of books by the fire. Kneeling, Bethroot runs her finger along the spine of one of the books, curious to know what he read, because she certainly wouldn’t ask. Ancestors knows, she couldn’t ask questions.

When she sees the top book is full of love poems, Bethroot stands too quickly, ignoring the sour feeling in her stomach, realizing she can’t stay in the stable for another moment. 

So she doesn’t, picking up her satchel and calling out apologies to the stable hands. Her feet march her toward the Main Hall without her even having to think as she ignores all the people in the Courtyard. The loud voices and laughter Bethroot heard from outside the Main Hall stop the moment she steps inside. It’s crowded for a Tuesday evening, but they too she ignores, only having eyes for Josephine’s office

Josephine is at her desk, writing, and looks up as she enters. A knot forms in Bethroot’s stomach; she can tell, just by the crease in Josephine’s brow, that something is wrong. “Is everything ready?” Bethroot asks.

“My lady,” Josephine says as she stands, “there has been a change in plans.”

“Oh?” Bethroot clasps her hands behind her back, waiting. It’s been a month since she’s seen Rainier; she’s ready to go crazy from waiting.

“A public Judgment will be best,” Josephine says and Bethroot can hear the apology in her voice. “It is arranged for tomorrow morning.”

Twelve hours. It seems almost cruel. “I’m assuming there’s good reason?” Her shoulders slump at Josephine’s crisp nod. Bethroot refuses to doubt the ambassador’s instincts now. She’s waited a month. Somehow, she can wait another twelve hours. With a nod, Bethroot starts towards the door. “Then I need to get some sleep.”

“Inquisitor…”

Bethroot stops and doesn’t look back. “Yes?”

“Have you decided on what you would like to do?” Josephine asks quietly.

Bethroot shakes her head and leaves the office without another word. She’ll have to wait until tomorrow to make a decision. Perhaps when he stands in front of her, she’ll know what to do. But for now, she will go to sleep in her human bed, which never feels right without Blackwall beside her, and wait for tomorrow’s dawn.


	11. Judgment Day

Maddy knows she’s not the smartest girl in the world. She doesn’t have a slim waist or even a pretty face to make a man look twice. The thought of carrying a sword or a dagger frankly frightens her. But she can clean. And when she heard about the Herald and the magical castle in the mountains, Maddy felt she finally found her place in the world, giving her notice to the noble family she served and never looking back.

Skyhold’s Head Housekeeper’s instructions had been clear. The Main Hall must look perfect. Too many people will want to see today’s Judgment for the hall to look anything less than pristine. It’s why Maddy and the other servants are working before the rising of the sun. She’s on her knees, scrubbing a spot on the floor where some noble spilled wine and didn’t bother to tell anyone. She doesn’t mind spills if they can be cleaned right away. But this one lingered, seeping into the stone, and she’s not sure she’ll be able to wash it clean.

As she works, Maddy thinks about the Herald. She didn’t expect the dwarf to be so kind, almost always waving and saying hello to the servants, making them feel just as important to the Inquisition as those who fought by her side. Maddy prays for the Herald, like so many others, not only for her health and safety, but that someday the Maker might open her heart to Him. She tries not to question the Maker’s plans, but how strange to have a Herald who prefers the Stone.

But it is not her place to judge, she thinks, looking down at the spot. It’s not quite disappeared, but will only be visible in certain lights. Maddy nods, pleased with her work, and moves on, ready to clean the next stone. 

#

Bethroot wakes with a crick in her neck, thanks to sleeping on the sofa 

A chill surrounds her, a gift from the balcony doors she left open last night. Standing, she wraps Blackwall’s dark red brocade dressing gown around her shoulders, the one she gave him as a nameday present, knowing she looks ridiculous the way it trails behind her on the floor with sleeves that go past her fingertips. But his scent still lingers, if only in her imagination, so she presses her cheek against the fur-lined collar and breathes in deeply.

Without truly thinking, Bethroot walks to the very spot she first saw him in her quarters, more than eight months ago, before stepping onto the balcony. The prudent thing to do, what would be best for the Inquisition, she understands, would be to give him to the Wardens. Then she could wash her hands clean and send him to Weisshaupt, praying to the Ancestors he survives the Joining.

But why doesn’t that feel _right?_

Her mind wanders, and she settles on choice. Becoming a Warden shouldn’t be viewed as a punishment of some sort, but a new beginnings. And then her heart clenches and Bethroot understands if Rainier is to have a new beginning, she’s selfish enough to admit she wants it to be with _her,_ not with an Order a thousand years old. But if she is to do this, if she is to give him his freedom, there can be no conditions.

She knows him well enough, she likes to think, that if given his freedom, he will want to continue to atone for his past. Perhaps that atonement will lead him to the Wardens. If Rainier decides to join them of his own free will, Bethroot will not stand in his way. Better he die of the Joining than of a hangman’s noose.

Looking out at the mountains, Bethroot realizes she’s missed yet another sunrise. The sun is already hovering over the mountain, bright and cheerful, a mockery of her feelings. The sunrise is a running joke between her and Blackwall; even after all this time is Skyhold they’ve never yet been able to see one together. Maybe they never will. But Bethroot would like to think they have the chance.

They’re more alike than she ever thought. He called himself a traitor and a murderer when she saw him in prison. From the Carta’s point of view, how is she any different? Rainier might have done horrible things in his past, but so has she. How many people did she keep addicted to lyrium, with only the thought of her own profit in mind? How many cities did she go to, walking through the poorest slums, looking for the telltale sign of a lyrium addict so she could make some quick gold?

Thanks to the Inquisition, and even more, thanks to Blackwall, Bethroot’s risen above her past. She’s become a woman she thinks her mother would finally be proud to call daughter. And maybe, just maybe, Bethroot’s lived up to her namesake, a silly little plant the color of dried blood, when mixed with milk, that could save a life.

”Atrast nal tunsha _,_ ” she whispers, thinking of the old dwarven saying. _May you find your way in the dark._ She has.   


And Thom Rainier deserves the same chance.

Bethroot crosses her arms over her chest, feeling the light yellow silk of the robe lining glide against her skin. He had been so touched at the gift, something he could wear late in the evening or early in the morning when he stayed the night with her. At the time, she assumed he never owned a dressing gown as nice as this one - the brocade had such a lovely pattern - and would smile whenever he wore it, enjoying how the dark red fabric looked against his skin. But Rainier lived in Orlais for more than half his life; he probably owned far nicer robes than this.

It _hurts_ how much she wants to know him, wants to know the good and the bad and every detail he can give. She wants to delve into his history, slowly leaf through each page, until she discovers exactly what makes him who he is. And more than anything, she wants to know if he agrees with what she told him in prison.

_There was truth to what we had._

There is only one way to find out, Bethroot decides, her path set. She steps back into her quarters and starts to dress for the most important Judgment she has made as Inquisitor, secure in her choice.

She loves him, oh Ancestors, she still loves him. And because of that, Bethroot will grant Thom Rainier his freedom and hope it leads him back unto her side.

#

Since the moment he made the decision to go up to the Inquisitor’s quarters, all those months ago, Blackwall should have realized their story couldn’t end any other way except with him in chains.

But he kept fooling himself, kept thinking _just one more day, please_ , kept hoping he could simply continue the pretense. He should have known better. Everyone’s past catches up with them in the end. Now Blackwall will stand before her while she decides what to do with his pathetic existence.

Then there’s the hardest truth to face. Even with her past, Blackwall lifted her up on a pedestal, perhaps in a desperate attempt to raise himself up. The woman he placed on that pedestal should have left him to hang. She should have never looked back once she learned the truth. But his lady refused, and who knows what machinations took place to free him? If she’s not the woman he thought her to be, one above reproach, who exactly is she?

And will he even have the chance to find out?

Two Inquisition guards approach and Blackwall stands, preparing himself for the spectacle ahead. No doubt it will be. Even though so many of the common folk love the Herald, there are still some who find it perverse that a Stone-fearing dwarf should be in a position of power for the Chantry. They’ll revel in the sight of Blackwall standing before her, twisting any words spoken to their own purpose, and it will all be his fault.

If only Blackwall could have stayed away from her. If only she sent him away when he asked. If only. The story of his fucking life.

If only he saved his money from the Grand Tourney instead of squandering it on women and wine. If only he had the courage to say no when offered that first bribe. If only he walked away from Ser Robert. If only he told his men to stop when he heard the children singing. If only he could have saved the Warden-Constable.

If only he had gone to Gwaren.

Instead, he only feels the weight of the manacles on his wrists, and the shove of a guard behind him, telling him to start walking. Blackwall complies and steps into the Courtyard, with his head hanging low. Voices whisper all around him and Blackwall realizes he is scared, not of the Judgment ahead, but after. He’s terrified of living with the truth, instead of hiding it. His shame is out there for everyone, including his lady, to see, and it _frightens_ him.

He waits outside the closed door of the Main Hall, and takes a breath. Judgments mercifully do not last long, so the horrible waiting and wondering about his fate is almost over. The doors open, and even this far away, Blackwall sees her sitting on her throne, her feet not touching the floor. He’s never understood why the lady Ambassador insists on such a throne for the Inquisitor, one where she needs to jump up into. But she always needs to jump into chairs, thanks to there hardly being any dwarf-size furniture in Skyhold. And when it was just the two of them together, she’d forgo a chair and jump into his lap, telling him he was much more comfortable than a wooden seat.

As Blackwall takes his first steps into the Main Hall, the two guards grab his arms, too forcefully to be just for show. These guards would have been chosen by Cullen, a good indication where he stands with the Commander. He starts to walk and looks at the Inquisitor. He finds his heart swelling, aware he’s never loved her more than this very moment.

Then he gets a good look at her face. Exhaustion is the first thing he notices; she looks so fucking _tired._ There are bags under her eyes and her clothes don’t seem to fit quite right, as if she’s lost weight. And anger his lady does not deserve flares up inside him. She could have saved herself all of this if she could have just let him go in Orlais. He would be deservedly dead and she could move on.

But she didn’t let him go and now they have to live with the consequences. So he stands in front of the only woman he’s ever loved and waits for her to speak.

#

“Did that really just happen, Leliana?” Josephine asks, rubbing her temples as Leliana pours them each a glass of wine. It’s only ten in the morning, far too early to drink, but after that spectacle, Josephine decides she’s never needed a drink more. “Did Thom Rainier of all people call the Inquisitor corrupt before kissing her in front of close to a hundred people?”

Leliana hands her the glass of wine, and Josephine takes a moment to sniff the bouquet out of habit. It’s a dark port, and she smells citrus, caramel and oak, before drinking the entire glass without stopping. There’s a moment of light-headedness, but she simply shakes her head and thinks of all the work ahead.

“Don’t blame Rainier,” Leliana says, her eyes dancing. “If the Herald had stayed in her seat, he might not have moved. But she looked ready to sprint into his arms.”

“He called her corrupt-”

“He called the Inquisition corrupt, Josie, not the Inquisitor,” Leliana says a bit more somberly. “The difference is slight, but it is there.”

Here is the privacy of her office, Josephine lets her shoulders slump slightly as she sits down at her desk. “I disagree,” she says, crossing her leg at the knee and leaning back. “We will have to be above reproach after this. Especially since you and Cassandra are being considered as replacements for the Divine. I will not have the Chantry dragged into this as well.”

Leliana perches herself on the edge of Josephine’s desk and sighs. “Did we do the right thing?” she asks, her voice quiet. “I think I would feel more at ease if she told him to join the Wardens.”

“She must not have wanted to be parted from him,” Josephine says, bringing a hand up to her cheek. “I suppose some might think it romantic.”

“And others, a sign of weakness,” Leliana says darkly. “There will be consequences. She’s announced to the world what will hurt her most: losing Thom Rainier.”

Josephine meets Leliana’s gaze then and the look they share reaches all the way to her toes. Having been the target of an assassination attempt herself, she would not wish it on anyone. Except perhaps Corypheus. The thought makes her smile, putting a contract on Corypheus’ life from the House of Repose. Would they hunt him as stridently they hunted her? They did have their reputation to protect, after all.

“Assign a watch for a few weeks, but discreetly,” Josephine says, trying not to feel like she is betraying the Herald. “The Inquisitor would not appreciate knowing he is being followed.”

Nodding, Leliana says, “You know, I’ve always thought humans and dwarves were adorable together. Like the Hero of Ferelden and Alistair. He always rested his arm on her head, messing up her hair. I think she hated it until she became used to it.”

“Blackwall could pick up the Herald so easily,” Josephine says, thinking of the times she saw him help Bethroot up onto a chair or his workbench. “Where is she now?”

“I might have overheard her tell Rainier she would walk him to his quarters, but then she had work to do,” Leliana says.

Josephine picks up her quill, ready to do some work herself, hoping the wine she drank doesn’t go to her head this early in the morning. “I’m surprised she doesn’t stay with him.”

Leliana picks up a trinket from Josephine’s desk, studying it before saying, “She’s putting work before play, as she should. None of us can afford to let our guard down.”

“I can’t imagine talking to Rainier will be play today,” Josephine says with a shake of her head. “Can you imagine how much they need to work through?” Leliana’s eyes light up and Josephine knows she needs to nip this talk in the bud. Spymaster Leliana might be, but she still loves gossip as only an Orlesian can. “I apologize. I don’t mean to gossip about the Herald. She deserves more respect than that.”

“You’re no fun, Josie,” Leliana says with a pout, putting back the trinket. “But you’re right. I’ll assign a guard for Rainier.”

“My thanks,” Josephine says. She watches Leliana leave the office before deciding what document to work on first. She thought to write the Arishok, see if there might be some way to salvage the relationship with the qunari, but a more personal matter comes to mind.

Her mother needs a response, whether or not to formally propose a betrothal to Lord Adorno Ciel Otranto.

Opening her top desk drawer, Josephine brings out the handkerchief, the one she helped Bethroot make for Blackwall, so many months ago. After the Inquisitor told her how he accepted the favor, Josephine made a point to keep an eye out for the handkerchief when she saw him. More than once, she watched him simply place his hand over the spot where he had it tucked away, and there would be a sense of renewal on his face. The move never failed to tug at Josephine’s heart, so when she saw the token balled up on the floor of the prison next to Rainier’s clothes, she picked it up for safekeeping.

She thinks back to the Judgment, to that _look_ Bethroot and Rainier shared near the end, a look enveloping passion and love above all things. A look that transcended betrayal and secret identities and even possible death.

Josephine decides to accept the betrothal. Then she, too, will be able to work towards a love like _that._

And once she’s written the letter which will change her life, Josephine will find a way to sneak Rainier not only the handkerchief, but those half dozen boxes of moss candy she brought back from Val Royeaux, so he can give them to Bethroot.

Candy won’t solve all of the problems of the world, but it’s certainly a start.

#

To be continued in _Masks._ “Love takes off masks that we fear we cannot live without and know we cannot live within.” - James A. Baldwin

**Author's Note:**

> many thanks to theherocomplex and jegaphone for their beta work!


End file.
